Killing Queens and Dancing Bees
by JacksBoonie
Summary: Shassie. After a botched suicide attempt, Shawn must deal with the aftermath of his father outing him as a fake. But with new feelings coming into play for a certain head detective and Lassiter being kidnapped, those are the least of his problems.
1. Chapter One

AN: First Psych fic. I have most of this story posted on livejournal and thought it I should try it here. So, here goes! Enjoy! And go easy on me, yea?

Disclaimer: I do not own the television show _Psych_. I do not own the characters of the television show _Psych_.

_Killer Queens and Dancing Bees _

_Chapter One_

Shawn made jokes. He couldn't help it, that's just how he was. Jokes made things less real, more bearable. Jokes meant Shawn was being Shawn, and Shawn being Shawn was normal.

Shawn being Shawn meant no one had to stay up at night waiting for the buzzing in their head to cease or until exhaustion finally took hold.

Shawn being Shawn meant anxiety pills didn't have to be used as an escape and most certainly weren't stock-piled in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Or under the kitchen sink. Or between the mattresses. Or at the office. Or in the back pocket of a pair of pants at all times as a constant reminder of a tightening chest, loss of breath, the spinning of a room, tremors in fingers and hands and arms and legs and knees.

Shawn being Shawn meant everything was right with the world and that no matter how bad things would get, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, there was a silver lining to every cloud, the sun – though it disappeared for a while – was always guaranteed to return.

So when Shawn Spencer was found in his apartment, staring vacantly at the ceiling as white foam bubbled past his lips and trailed down his jawline to the pillow beneath his head and the paramedics diagnosed it as an overdose, those closest to him knew that Santa Barbara's days of sunshine were limited, that the clouds' silver linings were disappearing, and that with every second that Shawn's life dimmed, so did the tunnel's light and their chance of escaping the darkness with it.

0 o 0 o 0

Voices without faces. Darkness. And pain. Oh, pain. Cloud. Fog. The voices faded and returned, like an antenna searching for reception.

"-damn lucky he didn't lose his liver."

Familiar. The face nearly forming in his mind and replaced by agony, by rage, by disappointment. Alive? Either that or in hell. Heaven couldn't hurt that much.

"It was a mistake." Sympathy. Someone for his cause. "It had to be. You guys know him. He wouldn't-"

"He swallowed more than two dozen pills!" Anger. Someone against him. Someone who didn't believe him, who had never believed him. "This was no 'mistake.' He tried to kill himself. He's lucky to be alive!"

"Did anyone think that this might be . . . that it could be related to his . . . _ability_? I mean, all the things he sees . . . They must take some kind of tole." Soft. Gentle. A woman's touch.

"You people are still hung up on that?" Oh no. The deceit. It was coming. The fateful, condemning words that would end him. "Well, let me set the record straight. That kid right there-" He could feel the atmosphere clog with disgust. "-is _no_ psychic. He's a fake."

They stung worse than he thought they would, the words. He was over. Done. Diminished into piles of ashen defeat. Had the verbal vomit not been spewed forth from his own blood puddles he might have remained intact.

But he could feel himself deteriorating, slipping further and further from reality. His limbs were separating from his body. He could feel them floating away. The great ebony sea, full of restless shadows and hungry beasts, waited to swallow him down, deep beneath its endless waves with no remorse.

"But he knew so many things. He solved cases! How could he? How could he fake that?" Blissful ignorance. He missed that. Well, _wished_ he could miss that. He couldn't really miss something he hadn't had to begin with.

"Because I _made_ him that way."

Awkward silence. Stunned, perhaps. It wasn't every day those words were said. And they echoed. Not only in his mind but in the space around him, glittering like confetti and tickling his skin as they rained down.

"'Made' him?"

"Conditioned him. He sees little details, so small they almost aren't there." Secrets bled into the open, ruining, staining. And blood stains would stick, stay, dance in oblivious faces until their blatant meaning was understood. "His photographic memory absorbs everything. He remembers it all."

"And you made him that way?" Disgust, disdain. Pity. This was headed in the wrong direction. Something was going to be said that couldn't be taken away. And _then_ where would they be? "You took a little boy and turned him into . . . some sick experiment?" She sounded so sad, so heart-broken. For him?

"I gave him the best police training anyone could ask for." Defensive. Stuck to shrapnel-laced old ways. Tattered veins still pumping gasoline and scotch.

"He was a child!" Hysterics. Only a woman. Distressed over her Romeo, Juliet with lips as wet as morning. Shakespeare had nothing on poetic injustice. "He was a child, and you took that away from him. You . . . I can't believe . . . God! You're disgusting!"

"Hey!" Shouting. He hadn't heard a shout like that since the day his mother left . . . "Don't you dare try to tell me how to be a father. You've never been a single parent." _Neither have you, Dad._ "I watched his mother walk in and out of his life for years, and I saw how that affected him. I did what I did to make him strong, to keep him from having to resort to _this_."

"And that's supposed to make it right?" Her voice climbed an octave. Footsteps in the hallway. A hushed, frantic voice. But the fighting continued, just like it had at home. Just like it always had . . .

Visions ran rampant. He couldn't breathe, not even with the oxygen mask over his face. It was happening. It always happened when he was little.

So Shawn did what Shawn hadn't done in a very long time, not since his parents had been together. It was the most effective way to stop the fighting, to cease the shouting.

Shawn fisted the crisp hospital-issue sheets beneath his fingers. Shawn ground his teeth painfully. Shawn sucked in a shuddering breath.

And Shawn screamed.

_AN:__ All right, the second part is somewhat confusing, what with the lack of names and the dialogue. But I figure that is what it must be like for Shawn, trapped in darkness and only relying on his hearing and muddled thoughts to figure out what is happening. But I promise to elaborate more in the next chapter, maybe re-do this scene outside of Shawn's perspective._

_Until then, Kats and Kittens. Catch you on the flip side!! :)_


	2. Chapter Two

AN: Wow, so sorry it has taken me so long to update. I've had so much schoolwork, it's not even funny. Two tests today, plus a six-page paper on _Gothic Architecture in Gothic Literature_. And I'm nearly finished with _The Iliad_, which means I'm on to _The Odyssey _next. My phone battery is dying because I accidentally washed my phone earlier this year. They gave me a new phone but decided the battery was still okay ... which it isn't ... and it only lasts me through half the day. I'd consider buying a new battery if my contract wasn't up this year. I'll be buying a new phone anyway, so what the hell. As long as I'm not stranded on some dark, back-water road at two in the morning and my phone dies on me, I think I'll be all right.

All right! Enough rambling! On with the fic. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I'll consider adding another chapter tomorrow or Friday if I have time ... College is so crazy right now, I barely have time to breathe.

Enjoy!

_Chapter Two_

_Shawn fisted the crisp hospital-issue sheets beneath his fingers. Shawn ground his teeth painfully. Shawn sucked in a shuddering breath. _

_And Shawn screamed. _

0 o 0 o 0

"He's damn lucky he didn't lose his liver." Henry Spencer crossed his arms over his chest, standing firmly near the foot of Shawn's hospital bed, and frowned.

His son was not stupid, he knew. And Shawn did everything for a reason – stupid reasons at times, but reasons none the less. But no matter how hard he tried, Henry could just not push forward the part of him that was worried shitless about his one and only son. Henry could not be the father that he knew he should be because he didn't know how.

And perhaps that was why he was standing with an angry frown in front of Burton Guster, Juliet O'Hara, and Carlton Lassiter.

"It was a mistake," Gus said boldly. The desperation in his voice was a clear sign that he was trying his very best to stay calm about the whole matter. But even Burton Guster had a breaking point, and this was the closest he had been in a very long time . . . "It had to be. You guys know him. He wouldn't-"

"He swallowed more than two dozen pills!" Henry nearly yelled, eyebrows furrowed pensively. Again with the anger. He couldn't shut it off. "This was no 'mistake.' He tried to kill himself. He's lucky to be alive!"

Juliet bit her bottom lip, taking a shallow breath and asking meekly, "Did anyone think that this might be . . . that it could be related to his . . . ability? I mean, all the things he sees . . . They must take some kind of tole."

Henry scoffed. "You people are still hung up on that?" He shook his head in disbelief as Juliet only looked at him expectantly. Gus swallowed nervously, his eyes widening, and Lassiter shifted only slightly from his position against the door frame. He was not entirely comfortable with being in the room with an unresponsive Shawn and his angry father. He also had sneaking suspicion of what was to come. "Well, let me set the record straight. That kid right there-" Henry jabbed a thick finger in Shawn's direction. "-is no psychic. He's a fake."

Gus closed his eyes and sighed, hanging his head as the truth seeped into the air. Oh, Shawn would not be happy. His career was over. His _life _was over. The young man would be lucky if the chief didn't drag him off to the big house that very minute, coma or no coma.

Lassiter seemed the least affected by the news. His only reaction was a slight huff, which to anyone else would have sounded like an _I-knew-it_ kind of huff but in reality was an _and-your-point-is?_ kind of huff. The head detective had figured out long ago that there was something more to Shawn's "ability." He couldn't deny that the young man was good at what he did. The acting was a little shoddy and more than a little melodramatic, but the police work was superb, rivaling that of even the eldest Spencer's. And that's all it was, when it really came down to it: police work. Lassiter was vaguely disappointed that no one else had figured it out yet. The son of a cop pretending to be a psychic? Finding clues that only a very disciplined – and _trained –_ mind would be able to see? There was nothing supernatural about it.

Shawn was a good con man. That was all.

Juliet was the only one who seemed heart-broken about the news, and she ignorantly attempted to fight on Shawn's behalf. "But he knew so many things. He solved cases! How could he? How could he fake that?"

"Because I made him that way."

Henry's words were followed by silence. Gus shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, swaying slightly. Lassiter's gaze ping-ponged between Henry and Juliet, watching the latter more carefully than the former. His partner's face was contorting from mild disbelief into something akin to more-than-mild disgust.

"'Made' him?" She asked, her tone deepening as the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Lassiter had seen this side of her only a few times. And it usually only emerged when her defenses were on edge. Who could blame her, though? Shawn was an important part of her life, whether she wanted him to be or not, and she had almost become somewhat tolerant of his persistent nature of trying to get into her pants. It was – dare she say it? – somewhat endearing the way he pursued her, even if they both knew it would never happen. It was more of a running inside joke than anything nowadays.

"Conditioned him. He sees little details, so small they almost aren't there. His photographic memory absorbs everything. He remembers it all." Henry spoke as if all children went through that kind of thing, as if it was part of puberty.

"And you made him that way?" Juliet wanted to screech, wanted to throw something at the older man. How could someone do that? To their own son? Their own flesh and blood? A faint thought of how Shawn would have turned out had his mother stayed with him and his father wafted through her mind but was quickly quashed. "You took a little boy and turned him into . . . some sick experiment?"

"I gave him the best police training anyone could ask for," Henry argued, defending himself fully.

Gus wanted to say something. Juliet was taking far too much of the heat for this conversation that had been mostly his doing. But Juliet continued: "He was a child!" She was almost hysterical, tears lining her eyes and threatening to fall with every word that shook her entire being. "He was a child, and you took that away from him. You . . . I can't believe . . . God! You're disgusting!"

"Hey!" Henry stuck a finger in her face, narrowing his eyes and growling. "Don't you dare try to tell me how to be a father. You've never been a single parent." Juliet continued to glare, not intimidated in the least by the older man. "I watched his mother walk in and out of his life for years, and I saw how that affected him. I did what I did to make him strong, to keep him from having to resort to this."

"And that's supposed to make it right?" She could tell they were causing a scene. The next thing they heard was the sound of tiny shoes tap-tap-tapping their way down the hallway towards Shawn's room. A small nurse bustled in past Lassiter, abnormally strong for her size, and attempted to hush them. Juliet and Henry seemed to be done yelling at each other, but the glaring match had only just begun.

Gus glanced back at Lassiter with an expectant look, gesturing towards the two with a nod. But the detective only shook his head. He had learned not to interfere when a woman was on a rampage. As long as it wasn't directed towards him, he was going to let enough alone. And he'd be damned if he was going to berate a retired, _highly _decorated officer with such a large influence on his boss. No. Lassiter was brave, but he wasn't stupid.

He trained his attention elsewhere, which just so happened to be Shawn . . . A very agitated-looking Shawn. Lassiter straightened from his leaning position, watching with a dry mouth as the young man's fingers clenched at the sheets surrounding his sickly form, as his chest began to rise and fall in an alarmingly rapid manner, as the muscles in his jaw rippled, as he parted his lips and drew in a deep breath . . .

. . . and let loose the most horrifying scream Lassiter had ever heard in his life.

0 o 0 o 0

Like the world was coming to and end, he screamed. Like he was being gripped by a thousand searing fingers, he screamed. Like he was five-years-old and his parents were at it again, he screamed.

And he couldn't stop.

All heads snapped in his direction, the nurse that had been trying to quiet them only moments before rushing to the emergency call button and pressing it with a persistent force. Like bees to pollen white-uniformed men and women swarmed into the room, pushing the four on-lookers out with no more than vacant apologies and rushed excuses.

Shawn bucked and kicked and lashed out at the invading hands he could not see but could feel everywhere. They held him down, shouting orders and fumbling for the restraints attached to the bed.

Henry grimaced. He hadn't heard a scream like that in years. The _death scream, _his mother had called it, because it had always sounded like he was dying, like something was slithering around inside him, eating away at anything and everything. And he wouldn't stop screaming, not even when Henry and Madeleine had ceased their fighting. They were left with nothing to do but hold him until he passed out from exhaustion.

Child psychiatrists had all said the same thing: anxiety. They prescribed pills and therapy and family sessions and marriage counseling. Shawn stopped screaming, but the strain on their marriage only grew worse until, finally, Madeleine was no longer in the grand Spencer picture.

"What's happening?" Lassiter was first to speak, shooting an accusing glare in Henry's direction. It was the first time he'd spoken since entering the hospital, and the hoarseness of his voice startled even him. "What's wrong with him?"

Suddenly, the screaming subsided, and the four in the hallway looked into the room to see a nurse extracting a syringe from Shawn's IV line. The young man lay panting and sweating but ultimately unconscious again.

"Henry," Gus said sternly, giving the man a hard look. For as long as he'd known Shawn, Gus had never heard anything like that from his best friend. He'd known about the pills, sure. He'd known about the years of therapy, yea. He'd even known about the screaming – had heard _about _it – but had never actually witnessed Shawn at such a weak moment. "What just happened?"

The elder Spencer wiped at his face, giving a heavy sigh and shaking his head. "I honestly . . . can't say."

"Can't?" Lassiter asked curtly, rounding the man and standing so that they were eye to eye. "Or won't?"

Several people filed out of Shawn's room, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. The last person to exit was the nurse who had tried to keep them quiet. She stopped, gaze locked with Henry's.

"Mister Spencer, may I have a word?" She stepped aside, gesturing into the hospital room. Henry nodded, giving the others one last glance before walking past the nurse into the room. The nurse followed shortly and shut the door.

"Gus, what the hell is this all about?" Lassiter was quick to turn on the other man, nostrils flaring and mouth stretched into a tight, thin line. Gus and Juliet had never seen him this way – aside from when Shawn made the detective so angry that steam seemed to be shooting from his ears. But it wasn't purely anger that was shining in Carlton Lassiter's eyes. It was defense. It was anxiety. It was . . . worry.

"I don't know," Gus admitted apologetically, crossing his arms and watching through the hospital room window as the nurse spoke in a tight-lipped manner to Henry. "I really don't."

0 o 0 o 0

Henry barely flinched when he took in Shawn's appearance. The young man was now in restraints, the velcro cuffs wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles. His normally disheveled hair was in downright disarray. And he looked pale, clammy. Small. He hadn't looked so much like a kid since he'd _been _a kid.

"Mister Spencer, I hate to say this so bluntly, but your son is a danger to himself," the nurse stated unemotionally. Henry wondered how she had become – and _remained –_ a nurse without a proper bedside manner and a clearly stoic attitude about patients and their families. "I'm recommending he be sent to our mental health ward."

AN: Well, I certainly hope that I didn't leave you hanging ... Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I left you hanging! That's my job. :) But I do want to get the next chapter up soon, so don't lose hope just yet!

Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	3. Chapter Three

AN: As promised...

Enjoy!

_Chapter Three_

The first thing Shawn noticed when he woke was the nostril-stinging aroma of antiseptic and amonia. The second was his father's aftershave – the same brand the older man had been wearing since Shawn could remember. He huffed at the unwelcome scents mingling in his lungs and at the back of his throat. He opened his eyes slightly but immediately closed them again as a bright light assaulted them, annoyed as he realized that he had whimpered slightly and that he couldn't bring his hands up to shield himself from the onslaught.

"That was a stupid thing to do, Shawn," a low, husky voice croaked, followed by a _click_ and a _creak_.

Shawn cautiously opened his eyes again, finding the room dimmer. His father shifted further into the clearly uncomfortable hospital chair beside his bead, leaning away from the light switch.

The younger Spencer licked his dry, cracked lips. "What day . . ." He cringed at the dryness of his throat. "How long-"

"It's been a week," Henry interrupted haughtily, sighing as he stood and asked the orderly at the door for a cup of ice chips. He sat down again and gave his son a pointed stare, receiving the same look in return. And that was how they stayed until the orderly returned.

With Shawn finally sitting up, having had enough ice chips to quench his dry throat – though still restrained to the bed – Henry spoke again. "You really messed up this time, kid."

"No, Dad, _you_ messed up this time," the younger man said angrily, jerking at the restraints. "Telling them I'm not a psychic? Low blow."

"Shawn, they wanted to blame this little _incident_ on your ability!" Henry accused. "An ability, I might add, that you _don't have_!" Shawn ground his teeth, fighting exhaustion. "They would have seen this as a cry for help rather than what it really is."

"Oh yea? And what exactly is this, Dad? I'm all ears. I'd _really_ like to know." Shawn was slightly hurt by his father's words. Not a cry for help? How could it _not_ be a cry for help? He had clearly been ready to take his own life for the sake of having someone – _anyone_ – understand his pain. Why couldn't his father be that someone? That anyone?

"It's irresponsible, is what it is." Henry shook his head, disappointment oozing from the tips of his fingers as he clenched tightly at the chair's armrests. "You can't handle your disease. You don't know how."

"What _disease_?" The younger man was fairly certain that if his father pushed him anymore, he was going to go after him, restraints or no. He'd take the whole damn bed with him if he had to. "I'm fine! I've been doing great!"

"Is that why you tried to shove a couple bottles' worth of pills into your system? Because you're 'fine'?" Henry asked incredulously. Shawn heard the plastic armrests creak under his father's grip. "_No_, Shawn. It's because you're just like your mother. You hide your problem from the world by acting stupid and silly, you run around the world trying to escape it, and then you end up doing something idiotic to end it all. It's the same thing, over and over. Just like last time."

Henry hadn't meant to let the last part slip. He and Shawn had promised never to mention it, especially after the argument they'd had over it years ago. And as soon as the words fell from his mouth, he regretted them. He really did.

But he was also a Spencer, and he wasn't going to take them back or apologize for them. They were out in the open, hanging in the air. And what Shawn did with them would determine how the rest of their relationship as father and son was going to turn out.

The younger man had no words for a moment. His brain was on overdrive. He was so tired, he wanted to sleep, but the questions buzzing in his head kept him awake enough to ask, "Mom had . . . Did she ever . . ."

Henry sighed, scrubbing his face with his fingertips and leaning forward in the chair to rest his elbows on his knees. "Yea. She tried to kill herself."

"Wh-" Shawn's heart was beginning to quicken. His breathing seemed uneven. "When? How?"

"Just after you were born," the older man explained solemnly. "She swallowed some sleeping pills." He ran a hand over his head, scratching at the back of his neck. "I found her when I got home from work. You were crying in our bedroom, and she was lying on the bathroom floor."

Shawn grimaced and looked down at his lap. He didn't want to believe it, not about the one woman he had wanted to come and swoop him away from his life of constant behavioral imprinting, never-ending tests, the "not bad"s and the "good enough"s instead of the "great job"s and "I'm proud of you"s.

"I didn't want you to be like her, Shawn," Henry admitted softly. "I didn't want you to end up like her, picking up and leaving whenever she felt like it, falling deeper and deeper into that dark hole." He swallowed, looking down as he clasped his hands. "That's why I got custody of you when you were little."

Shawn looked up at this. "You told me you had joint custody," he pointed out, his voice holding the tone of someone who had been betrayed. "You told me that she wanted me to live with you to make it easier, so I wouldn't have to start at a new school, make new friends everywhere we went."

"That-" The older man started, having to stop and take a deep breath before starting again. "That was part of it." He looked up, then. "She didn't have custody, Shawn. She didn't _want_ custody . . . or visitation rights."

Shawn shook his head slowly. "But she came to see me all the time."

"Because I made her," Henry explained carefully. "Because I didn't want you to hate her. I didn't want you to grow up without a mother."

Shawn had no words.

His entire life had been centered around the fact that Henry had taken him away from his mother on purpose, that she had drifted in and out of his life because the older man had tried to keep her at bay.

"You could have told me the truth," he said quietly.

"Would you have believed me?" Henry raised an eyebrow in question.

Shawn gave a half-hearted shrug. "Eventually."

"If you say so, kid," Henry said somberly.

"Hey, Dad?" The younger man asked meekly. "When am I getting out of here?"

Henry said nothing.

0 o 0 o 0

_/One Week Later/_

"They're releasing me?" Shawn was sure he should be ecstatic, relieved. But leaving the hospital was only the beginning. The doctors had explained the procedures and protocol for the situation – not that Shawn and Henry hadn't heard it before.

No drugs, except those prescribed by his doctor, whatsoever in the vicinity where Shawn would be staying. No alcohol. No sharp objects, even though Shawn had never considered cutting himself and just the thought of it made his skin crawl. No poisons, such as cleaners, pest control sprays, etc.. that could be ingested.

Shawn was to be confined to certain rooms and under constant watch, which meant he could no longer live in his apartment. Not that he would want to after everything that had happened there, but still . . . Independence had been his one true victory when he had moved out of his father's house at nineteen. So what did it mean when Shawn was being forced to forfeit his independence and move back in with Henry?

AN: Hope you liked! Next chapter up soon. :) Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.

P.S. In honor of Roman Pierce: "That was a damn rat, man."

Kudos if you know where that's from...


	4. Chapter Four

_Chapter Four_

Shawn stepped out of the passenger side of his father's truck and onto the cracked cement of the SBPD parking lot with a foreboding sense of dread. He'd wanted to go straight to Henry's house, to put this off for a few days. But the older man had insisted – which meant that Henry had shoved him into the vehicle and drove him to the station despite his protests. They both knew a punishment was inevitable. Shawn was just more likely to test exactly _how_ inevitable.

But the punishment wasn't what was bothering the young man. The fact that his father had decided to take him to the station at a point during the day when just about everyone would be there made his stomach collapse in on itself.

"You sure we can't do this later?" Shawn begged for probably the dozenth time since they had parked.

Henry rounded the truck and clapped a condescending hand on his son's shoulder, steering him towards the entrance. "Best just to get it over with, kid."

"Dad, I just got released from the hospital," the young man protested, swallowing anxiously as the entrance loomed right above them. "You don't think I could have at least a _day_ to recuperate?"

"No, Shawn. I don't," his father replied bluntly, shoving him through the double doors. Shawn sucked in a breath, wincing just as they turned the corner that lead to the main floor of the precinct house . . . and found a mere four figures standing stiffly in the center of the room, awaiting their arrival. Vick, Lassiter, Juliet, and Gus all turned in their direction, somber gazes washing over the younger Spencer like tidal waves. Shawn almost didn't dare breathe for fear of drowning. Instead, he glanced around the deserted room, having never seen it that empty, save around closing time.

"Where is everyone?" He asked timidly, folding his arms around his midsection in a pure un-Shawn-like fashion, something that wasn't missed by the others in the room.

"Lunch," Vick replied curtly, motioning for them to join the group. Henry moved forward, but Shawn didn't budge, making the older man turn to him with annoyance.

"Shawn," the older man breathed, tugging on his son's arm.

"It's only 10:30," Shawn declared. Not even Gus had heard his best friend's tone so emotionless before. It surprised them all. Shawn was known to bounce off walls on his _bad_ days. No one could imagine what kind of day it was when Shawn Spencer was absolutely deadpan.

"Early lunch," Juliet chimed in helpfully, her eyes the only ones emitting sympathy.

Vick looked strangely calm about the whole situation. Lassiter had his usual something-sour-up-his-butt attitude splayed across his face. And Gus's anxiety was permeating off of him in thick sheets, choking himself and Shawn along with him.

"We need to have a chat, Shawn," the police chief said, eyeing the younger Spencer with a gleaming smirk.

Shawn's stomach – still queasy from the trip to the station – churned, and he grit his teeth. Suddenly, it wasn't just about him being a fake anymore. Vick had something on him, something she was _clearly_ willing to use against him.

And Shawn Spencer had the distinct feeling he knew exactly what.

"Take a seat." Vick gestured towards the small circle of chairs behind her, obviously set up beforehand. Again, Shawn didn't move, eyes locked with the chief's in a staring contest of sorts. The young man's concentration was broken, however, as his father forced him forward and into one of the awaiting chairs.

He yanked his arm out of Henry's grip and scowled as the older man sat to the left of him, completely unfazed by his son's attitude. Shawn could see the corners of the man's lips twitching. Henry was trying his best not to smile, but his smugness suggested that his reason wasn't the same as Vick's. No, Henry thought Shawn was about to get what was coming to him.

But, oh, if Shawn was correct in thinking he knew what _Vick_ was thinking, his father was in for quite the shock.

Gus took the seat to Shawn's right, Juliet sitting beside the pharmaceutical salesman and Lassiter to the left of Henry, while the chief merely leaned against the desk that the half-circle of chairs faced. Shawn knew this tactic. She was placing herself in a position of power by raising herself above their level – above his level – made worse only because he sat in the very center, in her direct line of sight

Vick crossed her arms, lowering her chin to look Shawn in the face. Shawn still remained in a hunched position, arms crossed and shoulders angled inward. He looked as if he was trying to curl in on himself, disappear – which wasn't far from the truth.

"Mister Spencer," the chief started in a quiet, serious tone, as if Shawn was the only other person in the room, "from the moment you stepped into _my_ station, you have lied." Shawn kept his gaze leveled to the desk, avoiding her eyes as much as possible. "To my officers and to my face. In my very office." The young man winced, biting the inside of his cheek. "You have hindered _several_ police investigations. You have almost _tripled_ our paperwork. You have endangered the lives of my men and women, your friends and family, _and_ yourself." Shawn had a feeling she had listed those from most important to least important. "You have disregarded _every direct order_ I have given you." He closed his eyes, knowing what was next. "And I want you to work for me."

Four bewildered gazes snapped to the chief as Shawn unfolded himself and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and the heels of his palms digging into his eyelids.

"Karen, you can't be serious," Henry said incredulously, shaking his head. "He's not a psychic!"

"I know, Henry," Vick nodded, attention still fixed on the younger Spencer. "He's not a psychic." One corner of her mouth lifted. "He's a cop."

All eyes turned to Shawn.

0 o 0 o 0

_/The Truth About Shawn Spencer – First Chapter:_

_Shawn was one of the youngest first-years to join the Arizona Law Enforcement Academy. He was small and scrawny and generally the butt of many jokes._

_But he was the best, and no one denied it._

_He saw things that no one else saw. He shot targets that most veterans couldn't hit. He remembered things that everyone else forgot._

_He had only one flaw: his attention span._

_It wasn't that he couldn't_ pay _attention. That he did better than everything else combined. The problem was that he learned too quickly and became bored very easily when the others around him didn't pick up the material right away. His instructors grew more and more impatient with his seemingly laid back attitude and knack for not taking things seriously. Their threats of suspension and expulsion bounced right off of his buoyant personality._

_They couldn't touch him, not with the standard of his record. And what made them angry – what_ irked _them the most about this scrawny little nobody who had appeared out of nowhere – was that Shawn_ knew _he was untouchable._

_So they grit their teeth, they held their tongues, they let Shawn be Shawn, and when the blessed day finally came when Shawn graduated – at the top of his class and with honors – the academy let loose a unanimous sigh of relief. Shawn would be someone else's problem._

_Of course, they had no doubt in their minds that the young man would be one of the finest police officers released into the big, bad world of theft and rape and murder, and, of course, they knew he would ease the suffering and the hurt of others – the hurt and suffering that he couldn't ease within himself._

_But, like a flash, Shawn disappeared, barely handed his diploma before his things were packed and he was gone._

_The academy was surprised. Normally, graduates would use the academy's many resources to find jobs close to home or in a favorite precinct. Shawn left without word, without warning, and, for once, they were sad to see him go._

_Not until years later, when the chief of the Santa Barbara Police Department in California called and started asking questions, would Shawn's name come up in conversation at the academy again . . ./_

0 o 0 o 0

"Shawn Andrews?" An elderly woman asked, eyebrows raised over hazel eyes and a pinched nose. "_The_ Shawn Andrews?"

"The one and only," a gray-haired man replied with a withering smile and a tired sigh. "Brings back memories, doesn't it?"

"_Nightmares_ is more like it." The woman shook her head haggardly, giving an involuntary shudder. "That _boy_-" Though she doubted very much a disturbance like Shawn could be called as such. "-almost single-handedly brought down this _entire_ institution!"

There was a short silence, wherein both contemplated the disastrous time, before the man spoke again: "But he _was_ the best."

"And he still is," she sighed with distress, sharp eyes settling on the clasped hands in her lap. The academy had not seen a student like Shawn since his swift departure – and likely wouldn't. "Is he in trouble?"

"Quite a bit, I'd imagine. I had to fax a copy of his diploma and credentials. Apparently, he's not even going by the same name." The woman clucked her tongue with disapproval. "I did some checking up on the name Chief Vick gave me. It seems our boy has been drifting for a while. Only settled down a couple of years ago in his hometown, Santa Barbara."

"California?" The woman asked curiously, thin eyebrows raising again. "That's quite a ways to travel. Don't they have academies out there?"

"Some of the best," the man confirmed, flipping through the papers in his hands. "And it gets better." He smiled in amusement. "He's running his own operation."

The woman frowned. "A private detective?"

The man's smile widened. "A private _psychic_."

Her jaw dropped. "What on earth . . ." She breathed incredulously.

His smile waned slightly as he stared at the next piece of information. "More recently, he was released from the hospital."

"The hospital?" She echoed softly, sitting forward in her seat.

"The mental ward," the man continued. "Released into his father's custody and under suicide watch."

"I didn't even know he had family," the woman sighed, sitting back in her chair and shaking her head. "Oh dear." She brought her hand up, splaying her fingertips over her mouth as she murmured: "Shawn, what have you done?"

0 o 0 o 0

"Karen, you can't seriously think he's a _cop_," Henry blurted, looking between Vick and his son.

The chief raised her chin defiantly as Shawn sank lower into his chair. "I don't 'think' he's a cop, Henry. I _know_." She reached behind her, bringing into view a manila folder with very few pieces of paper. "This is his diploma." She slipped a sheet between her fingers and held it out to the bewildered group.

Henry snatched it before they managed a good look, glaring at the name there. "Andrews?" He ground out, turning to a seemingly catatonic Shawn and shoving the paper at him. "You used your mother's maiden name?" He whipped back around to Vick, waving the paper. "This isn't legit. He's a 'Spencer.' Not an 'Andrews.'"

"At the time he graduated, he was _legally_ living under the name 'Andrews,'" Vick explained. "It's legit. He graduated from the Arizona Law Enforcement Academy. Top of his class."

"With honors," Shawn piped up sullenly, still not moving from his hunched position.

Henry huffed in disbelief, honestly unsure of what to say. "I just don't get it, Shawn! All those years, training you, teaching you, then having to beg you to at least consider it, and you go behind my back and do this!"

"God, Dad!" Shawn laughed mirthfully, finally sitting up and leaning back in his chair. "It was out of spite! I went there, I played their silly, little games, I graduated, and then I left!"

"So why didn't you just do it when I asked you to?" Henry spat furiously, the paper in his hand crumpling slightly as he fisted it.

"_Because_ you asked me to," Shawn replied tersely, grinding his teeth. "_Because_ you trained me. _Because_ you taught me everything you knew." His lips contorted into a demonic smile. "And then the moment you doubted me, the moment you said, 'Fine. You'd never make it anyway,' I went. I _ran_, Dad. And I. Kicked. Monumental. Ass."

Henry had no reply. Shawn hadn't acted that way since he had been a teenager. Something was wrong. Something was eating away at his son.

And if Henry wasn't careful, he would lose his son again. Possibly for good.

_**AN:**__ So, a few things to discuss here..._

_First, Shawn's mother's maiden name. I made it up before I actually found out what her name was ... Although I don't remember if the show ever actually gives her one, so I made one up. It just sounds so good._ Shawn Andrews. _pleasant sigh And there's a bit more to the part about Shawn living "legally" under the name Andrews that I'll delve into later, but for now... no peeks, peeps. ;)_

_Second, the police academy. I did a bit of research - a "bit" being about twenty minutes of google-ing the internet - and thought the ALEA sounded like a legitimate place Shawn would run to. It's far enough out of reach of California that no one would really recognize him but close enough to home that he could visit Gus for holidays and whatnot... So if there is anything that doesn't add up about the academy, please forgive me. I'm not in law enforcement, and I don't presume to know what it is like, but I have a great amount of respect for our men and women in blue._

_Third, The Truth About Shawn Spencer flashbacks. There will be several more of these scattered throughout the fic, hence why this one was labeled "First Chapter."_

_And fourth, the ALEA instructors. I had only planned on giving those two people the one scene, but with the woman's last line, I think there might be more of them in the future... But we'll see. :)_

_Well, that's it for now. Hope you liked this chapter!! It's a bit longer __than the other ones, but I just couldn't find a decent place to stop._


	5. Chapter Five

"I'm allowing a six-month probationary period-"

"No."

"-in which you will do as the hospital says – stay home, recuperate, and meet with a psychologist once a week-"

"No."

"-and after this six-month period, I will put you up for review."

"No."

"The board will decide whether you are fit enough to work for the SBPD."

"No."

"After three months of desk work and meeting with the department psychologist at least twice a week-"

"No."

"-you'll be put up for another review to determine whether or not you're fit for field work."

"No."

Vick sighed, giving Shawn a hard look as the young man glared at the floor and frowned deeper with each "no" that pushed its way past his lips. She was giving him an out. And he knew it. But he wasn't biting, which made the chief more than a little frustrated with him.

"Spencer, this is a get-out-of-jail-free card," she explained quietly. "I'd really rather not have you locked up, but if it comes to that-"

"It won't," Henry said, scowling at his son. "He's going to take the deal."

"No, I'm not," Shawn shook his head defiantly.

"Yes, you are." Henry reached for his arm, but the young man quickly jolted up from his seat, taking a few steps from his father.

"No," he said again, turning to Vick with a determined look and staring her in the eye, "I'm not."

Vick sighed again, clenching her jaw before taking a quick breath and saying, "Fine. Detective Lassiter-" She turned to the head detective, who immediately raised his eyebrows in surprise. "-please take Shawn Spencer into custody."

Lassiter swallowed anxiously. Normally, those words would bring him a great sense of satisfaction. Any day that ended with Shawn Spencer in handcuffs was a good day . . . or used to be. And at that moment, it just seemed very . . . wrong.

"Detective," Vick barked, and Lassiter was on his feet almost immediately, fingers idly brushing the smooth, cool metal of his handcuffs. But, still, he made no other move towards the younger man.

Before the chief could reprimand him further, however, Gus stood. "Shawn, take the deal." His tone was firm, frustrated, and held just a hint of worry.

Shawn said nothing.

"Shawn, please." Juliet stood as well, her bottom lip starting to tremble nervously. She glanced back and forth between Shawn and Vick. "Take it. Take the deal."

Still, Shawn said nothing.

"Shawn, for God's sake, will you-" Henry began to stand, but Shawn whirled on him.

"No." The word was solid, nearly slamming the older man back in his seat.

"Spencer," Lassiter said suddenly, sharply, and Shawn turned to him, giving the man his full attention.

"It's your one and only chance, Lassie." The younger man forced a wheezy laugh, putting his hands out and linking his wrists together. "Put me away."

The head detective's fingers tapped restlessly against the handcuffs on his belt. "Take the deal," he said curtly, shifting uncomfortably as everyone looked at him in surprise.

Shawn shook his head slowly. "No," he replied, but his voice wavered.

Lassiter unhooked the handcuffs from his belt and let them dangle from his fingers at his side, closing the few steps worth of distance between them and staring him directly in the eyes.

"Shawn," the taller man said tightly, "take the damn deal."

Lassiter was using the same tactic that Vick had earlier – placing himself in a position of power by using his height. It had worked on nearly every criminal the detective had ever encountered. He knew it would never work on Shawn. The younger man was a force all by himself, taller than all of them put together, personality wise. So Lassiter was counting on a completely different tactic – one he hadn't used on many people (certainly not any criminals) but guaranteed one-hundred percent cooperation.

And Lassiter could see it working.

Shawn's resolve was breaking: his eyes were softening, emitting an inkling of uncertainty, and his eyebrows were furrowing in a clearly how-in-the-hell-are-you-doing-that? fashion.

Vick took a breath, ready to end whatever it was that Lassiter thought he was doing, but was cut off as Shawn murmured, "Okay."

She was stunned for a moment. "'Okay'?" She reiterated just to make sure she had heard right.

Shawn nodded. "Yea," he confirmed, finally breaking eye contact with Lassiter and swallowing hard. "Okay."

The head detective cleared his throat loudly, his ears burning as he, suddenly, realized his proximity to the young man, and stepped back. "Good," he said, fumbling with the handcuffs until they were clipped back onto his belt. "Good." Only when the chief's next words echoed across the barren room did Lassiter wonder whether he'd made the right choice by keeping Shawn out of a cell.

"All right," Vick nodded with a strange smile. "Shawn Spencer, welcome to the Santa Barbara Police Department."

0 o 0 o 0

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Pleeease?"

"No, Shawn! I am not taking you to Detective Lassiter's house!" Gus was getting tired of the game. Shawn had been begging him since the moment Henry had left. "Your dad asked me to look after you while he went to the grocery store."

"'Look after'?" Shawn huffed with indignation. "Gus, I don't need a baby-sitter."

"He said he'd be back in an hour," the salesman continued. "Do you have any idea how mad he'll be if he comes home and you aren't here?" Shawn paused a moment, as if actually considering the question. "Shawn!"

"Yes. He'll be angry. But, Gus, he said to 'look after' me, right?"

"I thought you said you didn't need a baby-sitter," Gus countered, eyeing his friend critically. If Shawn was good at anything besides being a brilliant con man, he was good at contradicting himself . . . and making it seem like he was right in both aspects.

"Gus, what do I know? I tried to kill myself," Shawn said off-handedly, missing the spark of hurt in Gus's eyes. "The point is, he didn't say you have to look after me here, did he?"

"I'm pretty sure that was a given," Gus replied curtly.

"Please?"

"No, Shawn!"

0 o 0 o 0

It was Lassiter's first day off in almost two weeks, and he wouldn't have another for several more days.

So when the doorbell rang and the head detective found Shawn Spencer planted firmly on his front porch, he knew only one thing.

Someone up there hated him.

"Damn it."


	6. Chapter Six

"Yea, Henry, I'll have him home," Lassiter said stoically into the receiver of his cellphone. "Yea. See you in a bit." He snapped the object shut, frowning at Shawn's expectant look.

The younger man had been alone, which had raised the head detective's suspicions immediately. With some fine wheedling skills -- and a threat to cuff Shawn on the spot and take him straight to Vick's office -- Shawn had finally confessed to the Irishman that he might have dropped something into Gus's lemonade that had inadvertently knocked out his best friend. Shawn had felt guilty, of course -- if only for the few minutes that it had taken the pharmaceutical salesman to konk out on Henry's couch.

Lassiter had roughly pulled the younger man into the house by the collar of his shirt, sat him down on one of the only pieces of furniture his wife had left him -- an old, worn brown couch with cushions that didn't match and stuffing spurting from the frayed edges -- and promptly shoved a finger in his face, ordering him to stay put. After Shawn agreed -- several times at the insistence of the older man -- Lassiter had quickly grabbed a plastic grocery bag, rummaging through the house and pulling any and all medication from the shelves.

He doubted very much that Shawn would attempt any such "life-threatening" activities in his home, but protocol was protocol: where ever Shawn Spencer was, medication could not be.

After hastily stuffing the not-as-full-as-one-would-think-it-would-be-considering-the-headaches-Shawn-caused-him bag into his bedroom closet, Lassiter had made his way back out into the living room and grabbed his cellphone to call Henry, glaring at Shawn the entire time.

Now the head detective stood across the room, watching the young man in the awkward silence.

"Your father wants you to stay here for a couple of hours," Lassiter said finally, shifting slightly before taking a step towards the young man.

"Really?" Shawn asked, somewhat surprised.

"Gus is about ready to strangle you for the headache you gave him," the other explained seriously, his frown growing deeper as he wondered what in the world Shawn could have drugged his friend with when there hadn't been any drugs in the house, "and it'll give your father some peace and quiet while he gets dinner ready."

"Oh." Shawn's voice was uncharacteristically somber, quiet. "Okay."

Another awkward silence coated the room until the detective decided to speak again. "Can I get you something to drink?" Shawn opened his mouth, but Lassiter cut him off. "I don't have any alcohol in the house."

Shawn's jaw snapped shut, and he swallowed audibly, wincing at how dry his throat actually was. "Water, thanks."

Lassiter nodded and started into the kitchen, returning moments later with two bottles of water and -- somewhat reluctantly -- taking the seat beside the young man.

He allowed both Shawn and himself a few good gulps before speaking again, leaning forward with his forearms resting against his thighs. "So how long have you been pretending to take your medication?" He asked so quietly it could have been a mere murmur to himself.

But Shawn heard it and sputtered around the water bottle he had tipped up to take another drink from. "Wh-What?" He coughed, capping the water and turning to the detective with a guarded look. "What do you mean-"

"We found the pills," Lassiter interrupted, still not looking at the young man.

Shawn hesitated before asking, "Which ones?"

This time, the head detective did turn to the other man, blue eyes shining with something unfamiliar. "All of them," he replied. Shawn opened his mouth to argue, but, again, Lassiter cut him short. "Don't bullshit me, Spencer." He stood and began to pace in front of the couch. "Those were prescription drugs, not something you can find on the shelf at a drug store." His jaw muscles bulged as he tried to keep his composure, his eyes planted to his shoes as they clapped loudly against the hardwood floor with each firm step. "There were hundreds, probably thousands, just stashed around your apartment. Christ, Shawn! They were everywhere!"

"Maybe I got them from Gus," Shawn countered weakly with a half-hearted shrug.

"Nuh-uh," Lassiter huffed with a shake of his head. "Guster isn't that stupid." He cricked his neck in that way he did when he was on a roll. It was an exhilarating feeling, really: the rush of adrenalin as he worked things through in his head, the shortness of breath as his pace quickened. Had the person that the detective was stripping down -- figuratively speaking, of course -- not been Shawn Spencer, he might have let himself enjoy the feeling. "And some of the bottles we found dated back before he got into pharmaceuticals."

"Lassie," Shawn laughed nervously, arms circling his middle in that way that made him seem so small, so lost, "I don't now what you want from me."

Lassiter stopped pacing, standing right in front of the younger man and placing his hands on his hips. "You know exactly what I want, Shawn."

And Shawn sighed with defeat. Because he did.

0 o 0 o 0

//The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Second Chapter):

Shawn was seventeen the first time he tried to kill himself.

His father found him on the kitchen floor, seizing beside an open bottle of drain cleaner as grayish-blue liquid stretched out across the tiles and mingled with the contents of the younger man's stomach. Henry hadn't been that scared for his son since Shawn had been born more than a month early and given mere hours to live.

He'd proved the doctors wrong then, and the elder Spencer certainly hoped Shawn would do it again.

It took one session with the hospital psychiatrist to determine that the medication Shawn was taking wasn't strong enough for his acute anxiety disorder, just as it took Shawn only one day to realize that the medication that the doctor had prescribed him was not helping.

The pills made the buzzing in his head subside. They made his muscles relax and gave him his first full breath of air. But they also made him less alert, dulled his senses -- most notably his memory. And Henry very soon realized that all the training and knowledge he had imparted on his son had been little more than a waste of time.

So when Shawn weaned himself off the medication and started to act like his old self again, the doctors happily chalked it up to the young man's body becoming accustomed to the foreign substance, and Henry was more than willing to leave it at that.

For years, Shawn lived in a shell, drowning within himself. For years, Shawn would barely breach the surface, the tips of his fingers tasting freedom, before the waves roared and rolled, sucking him into the depths again. Shawn had learned to live with the water in his lungs, the sting in the back of his throat. But he couldn't deny the itch in the recesses of his mind -- the one that screamed for release.

And one day, the itch won.//

0 o 0 o 0

Lassiter had always been a good listener. It was part of the reason he was a great detective. He heard things in voices -- tones and cracks and octaves. He could nail a person's life story with only a sentence. And Shawn was certainly no exception, but the young man was not merely giving the head detective a life story.

Shawn was giving Lassiter his very soul . . . and the Irishman wasn't quite sure what to do with that.

"So, Lassie," Shawn said suddenly, pulling the other man from his thoughts, "what's on the agenda for tonight?"

0 o 0 o 0

Half a movie and two bowls of popcorn later, Shawn lay blessedly asleep on Lassiter's couch. Unfortunately, the young man also lay sprawled across the detective's lap. And Carlton Lassiter was more than a little perturbed.

But the older man saw the dark circles surrounding Shawn's eyes and the look of absolute relaxation on the other's face and couldn't bring himself to disturb him. The ending of the movie finally approaching, Lassiter was almost appalled when he looked down to find his fingers absently running through Shawn's surprisingly soft hair . . . almost appalled. On some level, he knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn't be doing it, but at the same time it felt . . . right. If felt as if the two of them had always been that way, had always been together.

Shawn shifted slightly in his sleep, and Lassiter froze, holding his breath until the younger man settled again.

How had Shawn Spencer -- con man extraordinaire -- managed to burrow his way under the detective's skin?

His thoughts were cut short as his cellphone began to ring. He grumbled at the sudden interruption, thankful that Shawn didn't seem to wake as he dug the infernal object out of his pocket. He swallowed hard when the name Chief Vick blared at him from the small ID screen.

He snapped it open, giving a curt, "Lassiter." He listened intently for a good minute, his face growing grimmer by the second. "I can be there in twenty minutes." He closed the phone and looked down at the sleeping man with a misplaced feeling of guilt.

Shawn looked content. Shawn looked at peace. Shawn looked . . . awake.

"Spencer . . ."

"Yes, Lassie?" Came the husky answer.

"Get off my lap."

It was the second time since meeting Shawn Spencer that Lassiter had said those exact words, but it was the first time he actually regretted them.

AN: Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!! It's really helped me stay in the mood to write. :) Later, Gators!! Catch you all in the next chapter


	7. Chapter Seven

AN: All right, so I recently realized that I've been severely slacking on this site and only updating on livejournal. So, for your reading pleasure, I now submit EVERYTHING that I have posted on livejournal: Chapters 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11. Enjoy. :)

Chapter Seven:

Lassiter shut off his car, the keys jingling in a familiar way as he pulled them from the ignition and started to open his door.

"I think I can walk myself to the door, Lassie," Shawn said with a smirk. The gesture didn't reach his eyes, and the head detective was somewhat perturbed by that fact. Since when did Shawn not smile with his entire being? Not that Lassiter noticed how the young man smiled . . . or when . . . but he noticed enough.

"Out of the car, Spencer," the Irishman ordered, not missing a beat as he exited the car. He straightened his jacket, squirming under the starched stiffness uncomfortably.

Vick's brief phone call had been no more than a call-in to work. It figured, of course. The past few days the station had been in a state of complete lethargy with nothing to do but paperwork, and the very day that Lassiter had some down time, there was actual work to be done. He'd barely had time to change into a suit before pushing Shawn out the door and driving him to Henry's.

"Seriously, though," Shawn interrupted his thoughts, slamming the passenger side door closed and walking around the car to the front gate, "you don't have to do this."

Lassiter grit his teeth. "Yea, I know." He swung the gate open and gestured for the other man to proceed. "I'm just following orders."

"Oh." Shawn looked slightly hurt as he nodded and passed through the gate, sluggishly making his way towards his father's house. The old home loomed above them in the twilight, looking almost sinister. Shawn had no doubt in his mind that it was a dreadful foreshadowing of what was to come.

Both men stepped up the porch stairs, Lassiter keeping Shawn's slow pace.

"I think I can take it from here," the young man said meekly. But Lassiter merely leaned forward, knocking firmly on the door. Shawn scowled at his shoes, annoyed at the pleasure that the detective must be feeling by delivering him to certain doom.

In fact, Lassiter wasn't happy at all.

Shawn had tried to kill himself, and the detective hadn't noticed anything. He should have known. He should have looked into the younger man's medical history when they first met so that he would have known what to keep an eye out for.

Granted, Henry and Gus hadn't noticed either, but Henry didn't seem the type to keep tabs on his own son, and Gus was too close to Shawn to really notice anything. So it had been up to Lassiter to make sure Shawn stayed safe, that Shawn didn't do stupid things like trying to kill himself. And the head detective was ashamed, sorry. More than anyone in all of Santa Barbara would ever know.

So that was when it happened.

Lassiter reached out with both hands, fisting Shawn's shirt and roughly pulling the young man towards himself. Shawn barely had time to gasp before he was pressed flush up against the taller man, his lips being crushed by Lassiter's. They were smoother than Shawn had realized, firm and tight. Definitely not like a woman's lips . . . but definitely not bad.

And in a flash it was over. Lassiter's warmth was gone, and the detective stood facing the door again, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. Shawn opened his mouth to say something – anything – but the door swung open, revealing a very angry-looking Henry. It was just as well, the younger man supposed. He wouldn't have known what to say anyway.

But now it was there, hanging in the air between them like a hissing possum. Most people would try to ignore it, pretend it wasn't there and hope to hell it would disappear eventually. Shawn, however, was not most people, and hissing possums needed to be dealt with, whether with a few choice words or a big frickin' stick.

"What-" Shawn started, assuming Lassiter wouldn't appreciate the stick, but was quickly cut off by his father.

"Thank you, Detective Lassiter," Henry said, his gaze never wavering from his son's confused and stricken face.

"Mister Spencer," Lassiter nodded, starting to turn around.

"Stay," Shawn said, suddenly, causing the other two men to look at him in surprise. He didn't say anything else for a moment, and Lassiter raised his eyebrows expectantly. "For dinner," the younger man finished. "Stay for dinner."

"We owe you that much for looking after Shawn today," Henry added, narrowing his eyes at his son in that what-the-hell-are-you-up-to? look.

Lassiter cleared his throat. "Thank you for the offer, but I've been called in to work."

Henry nodded. "Some other time, then." The detective nodded as well, turning and quickly making his way from the house. "Shawn, come inside." Shawn watched Lassiter pass the gate and thrust his car door open, climbing in without a second glance towards the house . . . or him. "Shawn! Get in the house."

Shawn complied, turning from the red Mustang and shuffling in past Henry's disapproving haze. Boy, was he going to hear it tonight. At least he could use the memory of his and Lassiter's first kiss to distract him . . . that was assuming, of course, that it hadn't been the young man's imagination.

0 o 0 o 0

Lassiter walked from the Spencer home in little less than a stupor.

Don't look at him. Don't look at him.

He roughly opened his car door, quickly seating himself inside. Not until he pulled out his keys did he realize his hands were trembling. The objects jingled accusingly until he forced the right key into the ignition and started the car, pealing out of the small lot in front of the house.

Halfway down the road, realization hit him like a Chuck-Norris-specialty to the gut, and he had to pull over to compose himself, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel.

I just kissed Shawn Spencer.

No sooner did the thought pop into his mind than the driver's side window was smashed in and something heavy and blunt came down on the side of his head, throwing the detective into complete and utter darkness.

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn scraped the remains of his dinner plate into the trash, the irritating sound of his fork grating against th porcelain causing him to cringe. He set the objects in the sink, turning on the faucet and beginning to rinse them off. Henry stared at his son with a frown, drying the dish in his hand and placing it in the cupboard.

Shawn had barley touched his dinner, had ignored the glares from Gus across the table, and had even disregarded Henry's twenty-seven-minute rant about leaving the house without someone. Something was wrong with Shawn Spencer, and the older man had a suspicion of who had put his son into such a funk.

"Shawn, what's going on between you and Lassiter?"

The wet dish that Shawn had been handing to his father slipped form the young man's fingers, shattering against the tiled kitchen floor. Before Henry had a chance to admonish Shawn, the sound of the front door opening took hold of their attention.

"Hello?" A familiar voice called after a tense moment, and each let loose a breath they hadn't known they'd been holding. "Henry? Shawn?"

"In the kitchen, Karen," Henry called back, giving Shawn a look that clearly said they were not dropping the subject.

Chief Vick, suddenly, appeared in the dining room, looking around anxiously, as only a police officer would. She glanced between the two questioningly, saying, "Sorry. I was about to knock, but I heard something break." She found the remains of the plate. "Is everything all right in here?"

Henry gave the woman a withering look. "Yea. Just a . . . mishap." Shawn wiped the suds from his hands onto his jeans, pursing his lips in an attempt to stave a frown. "What can we do for you?"

"Well, I hate to barge in," Vick said with an apologetic half-shrug, "but we have a bit of a situation."

Shawn perked up immediately. Vick's tone was higher than usual, so the 'situation' at hand was obviously not an average run-of-the-muck case. And her clipped words and clenched jaw suggested that the case hit a little closer to home than normal.

His suspicions were confirmed with the chief's next words: "It's Detective Lassiter."

"What?" Shawn asked before he could stop himself, his heart hammering in his chest and his throat closing up.

Vick sighed heavily. "He's gone missing."


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight:

Shawn stared into Lassiter's abandoned car through the shattered remains of the broken driver's side window, hands braced on the metal frame and lips drawn into a frown. He couldn't see anything. He was looking – Lord, was he looking – but he just couldn't concentrate enough to see. Ever since the hospital had started him on his medication again – smaller doses until they were confident enough he could handle more – things had been . . . fuzzy. His eyesight was blurry around the edges, and his mind was calm. Too calm. The only way he could think properly was with the buzzing, with a million tiny flies pinging against the inside of his skull.

The medication took the flies away, swatted them mercilessly and swept them off the proverbial counter into the trash. Without the flies, Shawn was useless. Without the flies, Shawn couldn't help the Santa Barbara Police Department.

Without the flies, Shawn was fucked.

"Shawn?" Henry asked quietly from beside him, leaning on the hood of the car with his arms crossed. "You've been staring at it for an hour. I don't think anything's changed."

"There's something here," Shawn argued, shaking his head and swallowing the dryness in the back of his throat. Henry shared a look with Vick, who stood a few feet away with O'Hara, McNab, and a squad car. The chief checked her watch and sighed.

"Maybe the two of you should call it a night," she said, defeat lacing her tone.

"That's a good idea," Henry agreed, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "Shawn, come on."

Shawn shrugged the hand off roughly. "I'm not leaving," he murmured stubbornly, and Henry huffed in frustration.

"Shawn," Juliet pleaded, stepping towards him, "you really don't have to do this. The forensics team will be here when they're done at the other scene."

"Other scene?" This piece of information caused Shawn to whip around and look at the junior detective with wide, tired eyes.

"O'Hara," Vick warned, and the younger woman backed off, her gaze averting to the ground.

"What other scene?" Shawn persisted, looking from face to face until he finally rested on the chief's stoic expression. "The one that Lassie was headed to?"

"That has nothing to do with this," Vick pointed out, rubbing her left temple exhaustedly.

"You don't know that," Shawn said, his eyes shining almost wildly as he shook his head in short bursts. "They could be connected. Lassiter's life could be at stake here. He could be dead, for all we know, and you don't want to clue me in on some stupid scene that he was headed to? The scene that may or may not have been the direct cause of his disappearance?"

"Now hold it right there, Mister Spencer," the chief said sternly, her hands on her hips and her feet firmly planted shoulders' width apart. "If you are in any way blaming Detective Lassiter's disappearance on the Santa Barbara Police Department-"

"He's not," Henry jumped in quickly, glaring at Shawn as he grabbed his upper arm. Shawn did not resist that time, merely digging the heels of his palms into his eyelids and grinding his teeth.

"I can't think," he said pathetically, shaking his head and whimpering in the back of his throat. "I can't think with this stupid medication fucking up my brain."

"You need that medication, Shawn," Henry insisted, unperturbed by his son's use of language. "It's the only thing keeping you from permanent hospitalization."

"It's the only thing keeping me from finding him," Shawn spat, pulling out of his father's grasp and taking a few steps away from the older man. "There's something here, Dad. And I can't see it because of the God damn drugs!" Shawn's hands came up to his head, his fingers lacing through his thick hair and tugging slightly in a very manic and un-Shawn-like way.

"Shawn, this has nothing to do with the drugs," Henry attempted to calm the younger man with what little patience he had left. "You're the same Shawn Spencer you've always been. There's nothing different about you. There's just nothing to see here."

"There's always something," the younger Spencer countered angrily, pacing the street in front of Lassiter's car. "I'm missing something. And I don't-" Shawn froze mid-sentence, staring wide-eyed at the ground beneath Henry's feet. He cried out in a fit of habit, almost forgetting that he didn't need the antics, and pointed to the spot. "There! There, there, there!"

He looked absolutely insane. Wide, blood-shot eyes, mussed hair, face more stubbled than usual, and the look of someone purely lost past the point of ever finding their way back.

Henry looked down, noticing the glass under his feet. "Yea. The window was shattered, Shawn. So what?"

"It was shattered inward," the young man pointed out. "But there's too much glass here."

"He's right," Juliet agreed, if only for Shawn's sake.

"That means that the door was opened," the young man continued. "And Lassie would never go willingly." No one could argue with that. "No signs of struggle means he was probably unconscious, and no drag marks means he was carried."

"Which means there was more than one person," Juliet joined in, beginning to see the other's reasoning.

"That's all good information, Mister Spencer," Vick said, tone still laced with a certain harshness, "but how does that help us locate Detective Lassiter?"

"It doesn't," Shawn admitted, biting on a thumbnail, and everyone's shoulders visibly slumped, "but it does help us find one of his Lassie-nappers." Juliet couldn't help the smile that graced her lips as she witnessed at least a partial and temporary return of her good friend.

"How?" Buzz chimed in, not having been able to contribute to the "investigation" as of yet.

"Judging by the trace amount of blood in the car and on the street, Lassie was knocked pretty good." Shawn was pacing again, lost in his own thoughts as he revealed how the incident must have transpired. "And if we all know our favorite head detective like I think we do, we know that he always locks his door, even if he's driving or parked on a stake out." The faces around him emitted confusion. No doubt everyone was wondering what that fact had to do with Lassiter's situation – whatever that may be. "And if the blood-spatter pattern is as accurate as it looks, there is nothing to explain the smeared blood on the window frame and the lock."

Everyone's eyebrows shot up, and Vick stepped determinedly up to the car to inspect Shawn findings.

"Except that the assailant first cut him- or herself on the glass and then unlocked the door before pulling Lassie from the car." Shawn ended by tiredly leaning against the back end of the red car, clearly put out by the whole experience.

"O'Hara, make sure forensics sees this when they arrive," the chief ordered, turning to look at Shawn. "Good work, Mister Spencer."

Shawn shook his head. "The forensics team would have found it on their own." He closed his eyes and leaned his head onto the roof of the car.

"Maybe," Vick admitted with a shrug, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder, "but you found it first." She headed towards the squad car, yanking the radio out from inside and practically yelling orders into it.

"You see, Shawn," Henry said matter-of-factly, leaning against the car beside him and crossing his arms smugly. "You're just fine on your medication."

Shawn scoffed and shook his head, turning and starting towards the house. "I'm not on my medication," he mumbled to himself when he was out of earshot, fingering the outline of the drugs that he had cheeked earlier through his jeans pocket.

0 o 0 o 0

Lassiter was cold. He couldn't see, he couldn't move, he couldn't speak. And above all, he couldn't feel the comforting pressure of his gun digging into the left side of his torso.

Already the circumstances seemed grim.

He was sitting up, that much he could tell, but it was definitely on some sort of concrete floor. His legs were stretched out in front of him, bound at the ankles, and his arms hung above him, cinched tightly to some sort of pole protruding from the wall. A dark cloth covered his eyes, tied in a tight knot at the back of his head.

A muffled shuffling from a few feet away caught his attention, and he turned in the general direction of the noise.

"He's awake," someone murmured. The tone was deep, and it echoed, like the room around them was spacious and bare. "What do you want to do? Put him out again?"

The detective's head was throbbing from the last time he had been "put out," and the sticky substance clinging to the skin of his left temple and cheek was more than a little uncomfortable.

"No," came the gruff reply, almost too quiet to hear. "Not unless he starts to put up a fight. We want him awake enough to talk soon."

More shuffling, and Lassiter felt calloused fingers string through his hair before tugging his head back roughly so that his face was pointed up towards the ceiling. He winced but made no sound, offering his captures no satisfaction.

"You sure this is the right one?" The gruff voice asked skeptically, and the Irishman felt hot breath on his face, wrinkling his nose at the rancid smell.

"Yea, that's the one. I'm sure of it. Followed him right from that freak's house," the other voice confirmed. "Saw 'em go at it on the porch." Lassiter stiffened. Someone had seen? Someone knew? "If Spencer comes after anyone, it'll be him."

Oh, fuck.

0 o 0 o 0

"Spencer residence." Shawn answered the phone after the second ring. His father was still out on the porch talking with Vick.

"Shawn Spencer?" A gruff voice asked curtly, and the young man frowned. It wasn't a sales call. Telemarketers, no matter how annoying, always started off with a cheery greeting to get on a person's good side. And anyone that Shawn knew wouldn't be asking if it was him or not. There was a definite distinction between his and Henry's voices.

So Shawn knew immediately that the call would not end well. "Can I ask who's calling, please?"

"Look," the voice on the other end ground out with frustration, "we have someone you want back. And we're willing to bargain. All we want is you."

Shawn swallowed hard, glancing fleetingly towards his father through the den living room. The older man wasn't paying attention. Shawn couldn't wave him down. There was no one. He was on his own here.

"No cops," the gruff voice ordered, as if reading the young man's thoughts. "We don't want any trouble. This'll be a clean exchange. You for the cop. That's all we want."

"Who are you?" Shawn asked quietly, trying to place the voice. It sounded familiar, and he was sure that he could almost place it. If he could just get a name or see a face . . .

"That's not important right now. I'll meet you at your office tomorrow at one-fifteen. Be there alone, or the last memory of your friend will be on your front porch."

Shawn blanched. "But I . . . I can't-"

"Be there, Mister Spencer."

The other line clicked with an utter finality, and Shawn was left standing stone-still in his father's den, the phone still against his ear. How was he supposed to meet a man halfway across town alone if he wasn't allowed to be alone? For that matter, why was it that he was the only one that they would exchange for Lassie?

Something didn't fit. Shawn knew he had heard that voice before. He was positive. But the after effects of the drugs he had been forced to take that morning – under his father's vicious eye – were still clouding his system. If he could just hold out long enough to get his brain back to where it was supposed to be-

The door slammed shut, and Shawn jumped, turning to find his father walking towards him. "Who's that?" Henry nodded towards the phone in the young man's hand, and Shawn was caught off guard for a moment.

"Uh, yea. Um, I-I'll see you tomorrow, Gus," he said hurriedly, slamming the phone back in its cradle and giving his father a fake smile. "Just Gus. Wanted to meet for lunch tomorrow around one."

Henry eyed him skeptically but nodded. "All right. That's fine. I'm glad you two are getting along again."

"Aw, you know Gus," the younger Spencer shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. The pills were still there, the ones that his father had slapped into his palm before dinner . . . the ones that he had pretended to take while Lassie was being beaten over the head and shoved into a strange vehicle. "He's never mad for very long. He can't stand suspense."

"Suspense?" Henry questioned, eyebrows furrowed.

"Lassiter's case. I told him about it. He wants to hear more, see if we can figure something out," Shawn lied easily. His father had always been his toughest critic, but he was sure he had the older man.

Henry nodded again, rubbing the back of his head and sighing exhaustedly. "Well, Kiddo, I think it's time for bed. Why don't you head up and get ready. I'll finish up the dishes."

Shawn grinned and bounded up the stairs. Any night that he didn't have to finish the dishes was fine by him. Henry watched him go, making sure he was up and in his old bedroom before pressing a button on the phone. The caller ID displayed the very last number that had called the house.

And Henry shook his head in disappointment as he realized it was not Gus's number.


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine:

At ten-seventeen Shawn's alarm buzzed. The young man had never been one to be on time, even when it came to setting his alarm clock. Only when he slammed the snooze button and rolled over to get comfortable again did the call from last night re-enter his consciousness – the very call that had kept him up until five-thirty in the morning, wondering why he was lying comfortably in a bed while Lassie was probably hanging upside-down in some cold, creepy dungeon. He couldn't remember if the Irishman was afraid of rats or not, but his mind had finally shut down, and he had found some semblance of a dreamless sleep.

With a frustrated groan, he sat up, letting the dizziness dissipate before standing and stretching with an extended yawn. He shuffled into the bathroom and stripped without much effort, eyelids still at half-mast as he started the shower and stepped in.

The water was a comfortable temperature, steamy and hot enough to turn his skin red. He put his head under the spray and sighed as the water soaked through his hair, snaking behind his ears and dribbling from his nose and chin. He closed his eyes and let the different sensations take him away, relax his muscles, and erase all thoughts.

All thoughts except one.

Lassiter bound and bleeding in some dark, distant corner, clinging to life with a large, burly man standing over him . . .

Shawn's eyes snapped open, and he lifted his head, taking in as deep a breath as his paralyzed lungs would allow. His chest was tight, and for a long while he just stood there, attempting to get a handle on his breathing. Nothing was helping, not even that stupid mantra he'd been taught by his high school counselor and had been saying for years:

I can breathe. I can breathe. I. Can. Breathe.

Over and over he repeated it, the words wriggling into his mind like worms and settling peacefully.

Peaceful brain worms, Shawn thought, and the image brought a silly smile to his face. He was relaxed. He was calm. He could breathe.

And someone was banging on the bathroom door.

0 o 0 o 0

"Shawn Michael Spencer, open this door right now!" Henry ordered, gritting his teeth as, for a single moment, the pit of his stomach dropped. Shawn wouldn't – couldn't – make the same stupid decision, right? Not in the older man's house . . .

But Henry had been banging on the bathroom door for near a full minute, and still Shawn hadn't answered him. Shawn really wasn't supposed to be in any rooms that could lock from the inside, but Henry had made an exception with the bathrooms, as long as the younger man was in and out within five minutes – ten minutes for showers.

Checking his watch again, Henry found it to be nearly fifteen minutes since he had heard the shower start. He didn't want to start worrying. He was staving that particular emotion off until twenty minutes had passed. But that didn't mean he wasn't anxious.

"Damn it, Shawn, I'm counting to three, and then this door had better be open!" Henry warned, bracing his hands on either side of the door frame. "One!" The shower shut off abruptly, and Henry refrained from breathing a sigh of relief. "Two!" A hurried scuffling and a few muttered curses. "Th-" The door swung open, and the older Spencer came face to face with a dripping, exhausted Shawn. The young man's left hand clutched tightly at the towel wrapped precariously around his waist, and Henry was able to see, for perhaps the first time, what his son looked like beneath the expensive jeans and the ridiculous shirts.

Shawn was lean but not enough to remind the older Spencer of the lanky kid and teenager that the young man had once been. Smooth, healthily-tanned skin stretched over taught-muscled limbs that trembled slightly – but not enough for the untrained eye to notice.

Shawn's eyebrows rose in question when Henry faltered. "Dad?" He asked quietly.

Henry mentally shook himself then frowned at his son. "Ten minutes, Shawn. You know the rule."

"Oh," the young man said sheepishly. "Sorry. I, um . . . lost track of time."

The older Spencer scrutinized Shawn for a moment before stepping aside and allowing the other to slip by him and head towards his room. "Door open, Shawn!" He called, and Shawn waved in acknowledgment. Henry wanted to go after him, ask him what happened in the bathroom, ask him what had happened the night before. But that would ruin his plans. And a father-son talk was already awkward enough without one of them in a towel.

Plus there was company to attend to.

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn descended the stairs to one of the most mouth-watering scents his nostrils had ever had the pleasure to endure. Henry was making his secret chocolate chip pancake recipe. Shawn had been after it for years, grilling the older man about it as often as possible. Henry had never written the recipe down, afraid his grandmother's handy work would find its way into the wrong hands – ie: Shawn. And while the elder Spencer hadn't yet revealed the scrumptious formula, Shawn was sure his father would have to at some point. He wasn't getting any younger.

But the smell of super-secret chocolate chip pancakes also meant something else . . .

"Someone's here," Shawn breathed, halting halfway down the stairs and bracing himself. Who would his father have over so early? And for pancakes, nonetheless? He stealthily descended the rest of the stairs, stopping on the very last one and peeking around the corner into the kitchen.

"Hey, Shawn!" Gus greeted cheerfully, stuffing a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake into his mouth and making an appreciative noise in the back of his throat.

Shawn relaxed somewhat, stepping out into the kitchen fully and staring at his friend warily. "Hey, Gus." He tried sporting a half-smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Lunch, Shawn," Gus replied matter-of-factly. "We're going to lunch today, remember?"

Shawn stiffened. The only person he'd told about that was Henry. And the older man seemed to be watching him out of the corner of his eye pretty intently, gaging his reaction.

"Uh, yea, I remember," the young man said, "but we're not going out until one." He gave his friend a pointed look. "Remember?"

"Yes, Shawn, I do remember," Gus said patiently in that way that he talked to make the other man feel like a child. "And your dad called this morning and invited me to breakfast."

Shawn glanced fleetingly at Henry, who was playing innocent as he flipped a pancake on the skillet and took a sip from a glass of orange juice. The younger Spencer had a very bad feeling about the whole situation.

Gus was lying. And Gus knew that Shawn knew he was lying. But the only way Gus would even have known to lie was if Henry had told him to lie. In which case the older Spencer had advertently added to the lying chain.

Shawn was not amused.

Because that meant that there were three options: one, he could continue lying and play along with the other two until one of them finally forced him to fess up; two, he could confess to everything and hope they had the solution that he sure as hell didn't; or three, he could book it and pray that Gus had seriously let himself go since his track star days.

At the moment, option three was looking like his only way out. But Henry had known Shawn long enough to sense when he wanted to run. The young man was twiddling his fingers furiously, shifting from foot to foot with an anxious air. His gaze kept drifting towards the door, and his tongue periodically darted out to wet his bottom lip.

"Shawn, have you taken your medication yet?" Henry asked nonchalantly, flipping another pancake over and taking a sip from his orange juice glass.

"Huh?" Shawn asked distractedly, suddenly stopping his fidgeting and turning towards him.

"Your medication, Shawn," the older man said, uncharacteristically patient. "Have you taken it yet?"

"Oh," the other said, furrowing his eyebrows and giving the question serious thought for a moment. "Uh, I . . . I don't think so. No, I don't think so." He shook his head and ran a trembling hand through his wet hair.

Henry nodded soberly, pointing to the chair beside Gus. "Have a seat. I'll get it." Shawn swallowed several times before clearing his throat and hastily seating himself beside his friend. The older Spencer watched his son for few moments before taking the skillet off the stove and heading towards the bathroom down the hall.

Shawn's leg bounced restlessly as he stared relentlessly at a single spot on the kitchen table. Finally, after a long moment of awkward silence – which was filled only by the sound of Gus cutting his pancakes – Shawn took a breath and leaned forward.

"I'm sorry, Gus," he said, the words barely above a whisper, and the other man stopped what he was doing, eyeing his friend critically, "about yesterday." Shawn looked desperate. He looked tired. And Gus knew he wouldn't hold out much longer against the young man's tactics. "I shouldn't have . . . I-I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

Gus nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Shawn. That means a lot." Shawn offered a fleeting smile before leaning back in his chair and letting loose a pent-up breath. He seemed calmer and, thankfully, less agitated. The pharmaceutical salesman wondered if that was what had really been bothering the other. If so, Gus had the vague inkling that he should feel . . . touched.

But there was still the fact that Shawn had lied to his father. Had that been a ploy to get Gus to come to the house so that he could apologize? Or was Shawn just trying to get on Gus's good side?

"I've been meaning to ask you," Shawn started, and Gus had a sinking feeling that this was why the younger Spencer had apologized. "What's up with the Psych office? Is it dismantled yet?"

The other man was somewhat surprised. He hadn't been expecting that. "Um, for the most part, yea. I don't think anyone else has rented it out yet, but our name is off the window and our stuff was moved into storage."

A strange smile spread across Shawn's lips. "You mean our storage lockers are in a storage locker?"

Gus rolled his eyes but couldn't help the half-quirk in the right corner of his mouth. "Yes, Shawn. Our storage lockers that cost us over six-hundred dollars are in a storage locker that barely costs us two-hundred a month."

Shawn's eyebrows spiked. "Cool. I wonder if my dad would let me put those in my room."

"He most certainly would not," Henry's voice boomed in that fatherly way as he entered into the kitchen again, a small pill bottle in hand. "You have enough crap up there that I'm still trying to get rid of. I don't need anything more in this house that you won't use and certainly won't take with you when you leave again."

Shawn was quiet. His father hadn't expressed that much confidence in him since he was five and he thought he could start training him to be the best cop there ever was. The fact that Henry was already talking about him moving out on his own meant that the older man believed Shawn would get better.

"Yea," the younger Spencer said off-handedly as Henry set a plate of pancakes in front of him, followed by a glass of milk and two pills. Shawn glared at the medication for half a second before scooping it up, popping it into his mouth, and downing a quarter of his milk. Immediately, he started into the pancakes, adamantly ignoring the watchful gazes of the other two.

"I was thinking that Thai place on Giles," he said around a mouthful of the masterful cooking. "We haven't been there for a while."

"That's because the last time we went, you tried to order a double-cheeseburger and onion rings," Gus offered with a tone full of attitude. "And because they kicked us out when you tried to ask the waitress out in Thai."

"She never said 'no,'" Shawn said with a smug smirk, pointing his fork at the other man.

"You don't speak Thai, Shawn!" Gus argued. "She didn't have any idea what you were saying!"

"Oh, Gus, I'm sure she doesn't even work there anymore," the young man shrugged haphazardly, wiping the syrup from his chin with a napkin.

"It's a family-owned restaurant," the pharmaceutical salesman informed his friend. "She's the owner's daughter."

"And she still works there?"

"Yes, Shawn. She's going to own it someday when her parents retire."

Shawn's eyebrows furrowed. "Dude, how do you know that?" A look of accusation crossed his features. "Did you go back and ask her out after I did? I thought we had a rule about sloppy seconds!"

"No, Shawn, I did not ask her out after you did," Gus said with an air of disgust, taking his glass of milk and sipping at it gingerly. "Besides, it's not sloppy seconds if I asked her first."

"What?!"

The rest of the conversation consisted of arguing, whining, and a demand for a detailed description of the date that Gus had taken the young Thai waitress out on.

Neither Gus nor Henry were aware of the pills hidden discretely in the napkin that Shawn had used to wipe syrup from his face.

0 o 0 o 0

It was one-oh-five exactly, and Shawn was sitting dead center in a bistro cafe with Gus and Henry, who had invited himself along for the outing. Shawn was nowhere near admitting he had lied about the phone call, and he could see by the other two's expressions that they were becoming more and more frustrated with that very fact.

He had planned on slipping away during a bathroom break at twelve-forty-five, but Gus had thwarted that plan by claiming he had to go as well and had followed him much more closely than should be allowed for two men heading towards the restroom – Well, two men that weren't Shawn and Lassie, of course. At twelve-fifty-seven he had faked a rather heinous stomach problem and had excused himself, but Henry was at his side immediately, regurgitating his faux concern on the young man and really making him sick to his stomach.

And, thus, extreme measures had to be taken: the inevitable Plan C. Shawn's favorite, if he was being honest with himself, and, of course, he was. It was just taking a little longer to take effect than he had thought. He glanced at his watch.

"Shawn, that's the fourth time you've checked your watch in the last thirty seconds," Henry admonished, putting his cup down on the table roughly and leaning forward towards the young man. "You got somewhere you need to be?"

"No." Shawn shrugged with a blank look. "I'm just . . . being time-aware."

"Cut the crap, Shawn," Gus said, giving his friend a hard look. "I didn't call you last night. I didn't make any lunch plans with you. And I certainly had better plans than going to some bistro with stale bread and rancid cheese."

"Date with the waitress, Gus?" Shawn guessed, and Gus crossed his arms in that way that meant Shawn was right but the other man would never admit it. "Listen, there is nothing-"

"Who called last night, Shawn?" Henry interrupted, gritting his teeth impatiently. He had planned this whole day around getting his son to crack, and if this ended in a bust, he would be out a box of pancake batter mix and a decent lunch. "I checked the number. It was a payphone on that corner-" He pointed behind Shawn. "-over there."

"Was it? Huh. Gus, what were you doing on a corner like that at such a late hour?" The younger Spencer scolded. "Don't you know it's dangerous to be out on the street that late? Anything could have happened to y-"

"Shawn," Gus said firmly, and the young man immediately snapped his mouth shut.

Sighing, Shawn looked down at his wringing hands, unintentionally checking his watch again. One-eleven. Damn. He was going to be late. The old office was a good ten-minute walk from there – six minutes if he sprinted. But either way, he wouldn't make the deadline.

"It was a man," he started without really thinking. "The man who took Lassie."

Henry ran a hand down his face and sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling somewhat light-headed. "And this man . . . Wh-What did he . . . What did he say?"

Shawn shrugged, looking small and lost like he was eight-years-old again and wouldn't tell his father where his new wrench was. Shawn hadn't meant to lose it. It had just been so shiny, and all he wanted to do was show it to Gus, but on the way to the Guster's, he had run into that bully from school. The bully had caught him and beat him into the ground for giving him the wrong answers to the math test that day. Shawn hadn't seen the wrench since, and he'd never mentioned losing it to his father or to Gus.

But Shawn was not eight-years-old anymore. And Shawn did not have to be sorry for withholding information from either of them. Ever.

"It doesn't matter. You won't help. You can't."

"Shawn, you know . . . you know we can . . ." Gus blinked several times before wiping at his eyes. "I think . . . I think something's wrong."

"Yea," Shawn said with a wince, an apologetic look taking his face. "I'm really sorry about this, you guys. And I hate to use the same trick twice, but . . ."

Henry and Gus fell over in their chairs, unconscious and completely unresponsive. Shawn stood, putting on his best worried look.

"Someone help! These guys need an ambulance! Someone dial nine-one-one! Hurry!" He yelled across the small cafe. Several people looked up from their conversations, most of them pulling out their cell phones and hurriedly echoing Shawn's cry for help. A few people stood up, crouching over the two unconscious figures while Shawn made a discrete but hasty retreat.

"And, uh, don't drink the iced tea!" He yelled before exiting, reveling in the disgusted looks that some of the customers gave their drinks before pushing them away. He glanced down at his watch. One-fourteen. He had one minute to run several blocks.

Well, he had always wanted to try to beat Gus's track record . . .


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten:

At one-seventeen, Shawn arrived at the office once known as Psych, nearly doubling over as his lungs felt like bursting. He was late. Granted, it was only by two minutes, and considering the time frame and the number of blocks, the young man was actually fairly impressed with himself.

"You're late." The gruff voice from the night before echoed his thoughts, and Shawn immediately straightened.

A cloud of smoke billowed from the open passenger-side window of a dark green Cadillac parked on the curb beside him. A shadowed figure sat within at the wheel, leaning toward the opposite window but not enough to reveal his face.

"Yea," Shawn replied in a clipped tone, shading his eyes from the sun overhead. "Sorry about that. I hit some...obstacles."

"Everything taken care of?" The man asked, shifting in his seat. The bright glow of his cigarette cast an eerie light onto dark, red-rimmed eyes. Shawn had to keep himself from shuddering. This was the kind of stuff from movies, the things that writers had nightmares about and turned into million-dollar screenplays.

Night of the Living Dead. The Exorcist. Poltergeist...Gigli.

"Yea." Shawn nodded, a hard look glossing over his features. "Everything's been taken care of."

"Good." The figure sat back in his seat, taking a long drag from his cigarette before tossing it out his window. It rolled into traffic, smoke still fizzling from its orange core. "Get in the car."

Shawn didn't hesitate, grabbing the handle of the passenger door and tugging on the rusted metal until it gave way. He roughly seated himself inside, pulling the door closed and staring straight ahead. He didn't want to see the man who had kidnapped his Lassie and bound him in chains in some deep, dark room and done who-knew what to him. Not yet. Because if he saw that man before he could curb his anger, he didn't know what he would do.

So he sat and he stared, ignoring the man beside him. Shawn could see out of the corner of his eye that the other man was looking at him, studying him. And the young man wanted to do the same, wanted to learn everything he could about him just by offering the kidnapper a fleeting glance.

Instead, Shawn spoke. "So what do you want from me?"

"There'll be time for details later, Mister Spencer," the man said as he turned the key in the ignition. The Cadillac roared to life, sputtering and shaking.

"When do we make the exchange?" Shawn demanded, gritting his teeth as his hands balled into fists.

"We don't."

Shawn barely had time to whip his head in the man's direction before a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind, one tugging roughly at his hair to jar his head back and the other pressing a foul-smelling cloth to his nose and mouth.

Shawn struggled, but to no avail. He could feel his limbs becoming heavy, his vision blurring as his eyelids drooped. The last thing he remembered before everything went black was a wide, gaping grin, yellow teeth glinting in the afternoon sun.

0 o 0 o 0

"Chief Vick?"

"I can't believe that restaurant just let him walk out of there!" Vick seethed, pacing the corridor of the Santa Barbara Methodist Hospital. O'Hara and McNabb stood cautiously against the wall, the latter hopelessly attempting to get the angry woman's attention.

"Chief?" The officer tried again, swallowing hard as the infuriated police chief spun on her heels and continued to mutter to herself.

"Two of their customers pass out cold, and they don't think to stop the one man with them as he runs out the door? That doesn't seem a little suspicious to anybody?"

"Chief..." McNabb sighed, his shoulders slumping. He reached a tentative hand in her direction, pulling back immediately as she wheeled on him.

"What?" She demanded harshly, eyes wide and glaring.

"I-Isn't that...Mister Spencer and Mister Guster's doctor?" His voice nearly cracked as he motioned to a man walking briskly from Henry's hospital room, long lab coat swishing from side to side as he stared intently down at the chart in his hands.

"What's his name?" Vick muttered under her breath to the two beside her as she started after him quickly.

"Harman," Juliet offered helpfully, trailing after the woman with McNabb at her side.

"Doctor Harman!" The chief called, catching up to the man as he stopped and turned around.

"Chief Vick." He recognized her immediately. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you could update me on the condition of Henry Spencer and Burton Guster. We're investigating the disappearance of Mister Spencer's son, and the sooner we can speak with them, the better."

The doctor nodded, clearing his throat. "Their blood work hasn't returned from the lab yet, but from what we have observed, we think that they both may have been given a sedative of some kind."

"Is it something we should worry about?" Vick asked, crossing her arms as her eyebrows furrowed.

"Not at all," Doctor Harman assured her. "The sedative was mild at most, and we're monitoring their vitals closely. Everything seems normal." Over the intercom, a bland voice called the doctor to the nurses station. "I'll be sure that a nurse informs you when they're awake."

"Thank you." The chief nodded absently, and the doctor turned and started down the corridor again at a hurried pace.

Vick sighed and turned to the other two. "We have officers patrolling the area around the restaurant?"

"Yes, Ma'am," McNabb nodded. "We have several eye-witness accounts of Spencer running in the direction of his...former office." He shifted uncomfortably at the insinuation of the comment. Shawn Spencer was no longer SBPD's wonder boy. He was a fake, and, in all reality, a criminal. "We're in the process of getting the surveillance tapes surrounding that area."

"Good," Vick replied. "Now, I want-"

"Excuse me," a timid voice said from behind the chief, and the three turned to see an elderly couple sitting in the waiting area, staring at them. They stood, making their way towards them. The man spoke again. "We're sorry for eavesdropping, but did you say the name 'Spencer'?"

"Who are you?" Vick asked suspiciously.

"I'm Michael Dunning. This is Martha Sampson. We're retired officers teaching at the Arizona Law Enforcement Academy."

Vick's eyebrows rose. "Oh!" She said, suddenly, recognizing the names. "You're my contacts. I'm sorry, I didn't expect to...meet you in person."

"Well, we didn't really expect to come to Santa Barbara," Martha started with a gruff laugh. She was obviously a smoker or had been at some point.

"But when we heard about Shawn's...situation," Michael continued, "we thought we would come and offer our assistance."

Vick gave the couple a tight smile, her teeth grinding. "Well, as much appreciated as that is, the Santa Barbara Police Department is more than capable of-"

"Chief?" Juliet interrupted hesitantly, almost blanching as her superior turned an aggravated and exhausted look on her. "I think...I think they might be able to help."

"Oh?" Vick ground out, one twitching eyebrow raising.

The young detective swallowed hard before taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and turning towards Michael and Martha. "What can you tell us about Shawn?"

0 o 0 o 0

//The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Third Chapter):

Chet Donovan was Shawn's first serious boyfriend. They met during Shawn's third week at the academy, Chet's first.

Chet was shy, tall and lanky with dark, curly hair and the most gorgeous green eyes the young Spencer had ever seen in his life.

Their superior put them into the boxing ring together one day. All activity in the gym ceased, several pairs of eyes attentively focused on the two contenders--Shawn, who had yet to lose a match to anyone, and Chet, who had barely said a word to anyone since his arrival.

Shawn's footwork kept him well out of the taller man's line of fire, but Chet could throw a nasty-looking left hook. After a few minutes of circling and playful punches, their superior growled and barked orders to "stop pussy-footing and get down to business." Shawn smirked, dodging another throw and backing Donovan into a corner.

Chet's mesmerizing eyes grew wide, and Shawn faltered. it was the opening that the tall man needed, and he barely thought twice as he took advantage of it, delivering a powerful left-hook to the other's jaw. Shawn swiveled on his feet, blacking out before he hit the mat.

He woke in the infirmary, those green eyes staring down at him in worry.

"Andrews?" Chet asked quietly, his voice trembling. Shawn grinned widely, immediately regretting it as he felt the painful swelling in his jaw and his split lower lip.

"Spencer," he said, sounding as if he had a mouth full of cotton. Chet looked vaguely confused and even more worried than before. "My name's Shawn Spencer."//

0 o 0 o 0

"Chet is stationed out in Nebraska, now," Martha explained, her tone withered and heavy. "He graduated a few weeks after Shawn. I don't think they parted on...good terms."

"Shawn started getting a bit restless the last couple of weeks," Michael added. "His roommate told some of the other trainees that he kept packing and unpacking his things, like he was getting ready to leave then changed his mind."

"We were told later that whenever he got too restless, his roommate would call Chet, and he would settle Shawn's nerves enough that he'd think twice about leaving."

0 o 0 o 0

//"Shawn," Chet called as he burst though the door of the other's room. Shawn's roommate, Brian, stood in the center of the room, arms crossed and face pinched with annoyance. Chet nodded to him, and Brian brushed past him without a second's hesitation, muttering something about being trained as a baby-sitter instead of a police officer.

Donovan frowned at the nearly-full suitcase lying open on Shawn's bed, watching stoically as the other man briskly walked out of the closet carrying several nicely-pressed shirts and threw the clothing hastily into the case.

"Shawn," Chet said softly, and Shawn stopped. He didn't turn, but his shoulders hunched and his breathing hitched. "Leaving again?"

Shawn swallowed, closing his eyes and gasping as Chet moved toward him and placed tentative fingers on the small of his back. "Don't," he begged breathlessly. "Don't stop me. Please, Chet. Please let me go."

"Sorry," the taller man whispered against the other's neck. "You go, I go. That's the deal, remember?"

Shawn let loose a bark of laughter that ended with a strangled sob. "Not this time, 'Officer' Donovan."

Chet's stomach twisted. Something was wrong. This was not the run-of-the-mill itch that he was used to. Shawn was genuinely bothered by something, and Chet was not at all sure whether he could fix it this time.

Chet turned Shawn around, taking in the red-rimmed eyes, the trembling fingers, the bitten bottom lip. "Shawn? What's wrong?"

The shorter man took in a deep, shuddering breath, grasping the arms encircling him and gently pushing them away. "I can't breathe. Chet, I can't breathe. This place, it's too small. I need...I can't..." Shawn's legs were shaking, and he whimpered as they gave out, Chet barely catching him before guiding them both to the floor.

The taller man's eyes were wide with concern as Shawn clung to him, pressing his face into the curve of Chet's neck. Chet could do nothing more than card his fingers through the other's loose hair and hold him close. Shawn's breathing eventually evened out, and he fell asleep against the only person that might be able to help him...and the one person he knew he couldn't allow to.//

0 o 0 o 0

"Shawn left after graduation," Michael told the small group sitting around him and his companion in the waiting room. "He didn't tell anyone where he was going. Not even Donovan."

"Chet disappeared for a few days," Martha said with a sigh. "He never told us whether he found Shawn or not, but we think he might have."

0 o 0 o 0

//Chet found him on the border of Mexico. Shawn didn't have much more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes.

"Columbia," Shawn answered when the taller man had asked him where he was headed. "I hear they make great coffee."

"Shawn, this is ridiculous," Chet argued, running a hand through greasy curls that hadn't been washed in the two days he had spent hunting the other man down. "Come back to Arizona with me. Watch me graduate, then we can go where ever you want. Columbia, China, Russia. Whatever! Just...please, come back with me."

Shawn considered the offer--truly considered it--and for a moment, Chet had a feeling the other man would really come back, that they could be happy and content and all that other bullshit that people had warned him Shawn would never be able to give him.

And then the moment passed.

"You don't know anything about me," Shawn seethed, his back to Chet as he hid tears that needed so desperately to fall. "You don't know one God damn thing."

"Shawn, don't-"

"I'm a lie, Donovan," Shawn spat painfully, his fists clenching at his sides. "You can't fall in love with someone who doesn't exist."

Chet swallowed, desperately wracking his brain for a response. "But I have," he replied pathetically. "I have, and it's not fair because you won't trust yourself enough to love me back."

"You can't...You can't fall in love with someone," Shawn repeated huskily, "who doesn't exist...who will never love you back."

Silence and then the slam of the motel room door followed the man's words, and Shawn spent the night cold, alone, and utterly heart-broken.//

0 o 0 o 0

"Did he say anything?" Juliet asked softly, the corners of her mouth drawn downward to keep her lips from trembling. "Did Chet say anything when he came back?"

Martha was silent for a moment, collecting her thoughts before saying, "I think he told Brian that he wished he knew who made Shawn the way he was."

"After graduation, Donovan moved to Nebraska," Michael said solemnly. "He has a family now, a wife and two daughters."

"Have you contacted Officer Donovan about this situation?" Vick asked, more out of curiosity than accusation--though her tone was anything but the former.

"No," Martha said. "We thought it best that Chet be left alone. If things...take a turn for the worse, then we might. But for now-"

"I think we should talk to this guy," Juliet interrupted suddenly.

"Detective?" The chief warned, eyeing the young woman, but Juliet continued, undeterred.

"Chief, so far he's our only lead. If Donovan is a part of this, he could be our only way of finding Shawn and Detective Lassiter."

Vick was about to argue, but the sound of a soft voice pulled them all away from thoughts of Shawn, Chet, and Lassiter.

"Chief Vick?" A small nurse asked politely, her hands clasped together in front of her bright pink scrubs. "The gentlemen you have been waiting to see are awake and...requesting to see you."

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn wasn't at all sure why it was dark or why he couldn't move his arms or who was trying to wake him from a warm, cozy nap. What he did know, however, was that he wouldn't like the answers to any of these questions. Not. One. Bit.

"Spencer!" The hushed voice came again, this time with a violent prod to his shoulder. Shawn gasped as the cold and the pain hit him, and he groaned, attempting to shift into a more comfortable--possibly fetal--position. When this proved unsuccessful, he carefully opened his eyes, finding a pair of very worried eyes staring down at him.

At first, he could have sworn they were a very familiar shade of green, but upon further inspection, he found them to be a very familiar shade of blue instead.

"Lassie?" He slurred, blinking his eyes into focus and shaking his head of drowsiness.

"Spencer, are you all right? Can you move?"

"Barely." Shawn looked up, finding his wrists handcuffed around a rather sturdy-looking pipe. He was not more than three feet from Lassiter. "Where...Who..." He huffed in annoyance, closing his eyes against the dizziness.

"I don't know," the detective answered. "Did you get a good look at them? Did you see anything at all?"

"I see the ceiling," Shawn muttered dazedly, his head lolling from side to side as he stared upward.

"Spencer, focus!" Lassiter hissed, his gaze shifting towards the closed basement door. "Did you see anything?"

"I saw...eyes," the younger man whispered.

"'Eyes'?"

"I've seen those eyes before," Shawn murmured, his eyebrows drawing together. "Tired, sad...Where have I seen those eyes?"

No more was said as the basement door, suddenly, swung open.


	11. Chapter Eleven

AN: Okay, last chapter for now. I do have the twelfth chapter written, and it is surprisingly working out for the better...I think I may actually know how to end this fic. Not anytime soon, if that's what you're thinking...but definitely at some point in time.

Chapter Eleven:

"Donovan?" Henry frowned from his hospital bed, mulling the name over for a moment.

"Chet Donovan," Chief Vick reiterated patiently.

Henry slowly shook his head. "I've known plenty of Donovans, but Shawn's never mentioned anyone by that name. Did you run a background check?"

"Detective O'Hara is looking into it as we speak," she assured the man. "McNabb is speaking with Mister Guster."

As if on cue, McNabb entered the room, a disappointed look on his face. "Gus has never heard of him. Shawn never mentioned a 'Chet Donovan.'"

Vick understood the officer's disappointment. Normally, Guster was a reliable second source of information, especially when referring to Shawn. There was very little that the two didn't share, and if the pharmaceutical salesman had never heard of Chet Donovan, then there was also very little hope that anyone but Shawn had the information they needed.

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn gasped and spluttered as a large amount of cold water was thrown on him. He coughed for a good minute before his aching lungs stopped burning.

"Sorry, Mister Spencer," a gruff voice said from above him, his tone clearly lacking any hint of remorse. "I need you awake for a moment."

Shawn let loose a shuddering huff. "Y-Yea. Sure." A shiver ran up his spine, and he winced as the gesture made the handcuffs rub at his raw wrists.

"My brother and I," the gruff voice was closer, and Shawn squinted in the dim light to find a burly figure leaning down in front of him and another figure looming above them both, "we'll be needing your expertise."

"My…" Shawn trailed off, swallowing hard and sharing a grim look with Lassiter. "Oh."

The detective bit his tongue, refraining from telling their captors that Shawn was no longer…practicing the "expertise" that they needed.

"I hate to break it to you, fellas," Shawn started, coughing painfully, "but I'm no longer a registered psychic in Santa Barbara. If you'd like, I could make some recommendations—" Something glinted in the dim light, and the next sensation Shawn felt was a sharp, cool object against his throat, the back of his head hitting concrete.

"Mister Spencer, I'm going to make this simple." The knife was pressed further against Shawn's throat, and the young man grunted as he felt the skin break and small rivulets of blood role down the curve of his neck. "You help us, and we let you go."

"How about you let the detective go, and I'll do whatever you want?" Shawn suggested. He gasped as the knife shifted, and he kicked out restlessly in an attempt to get away from the pain. But he was already backed as far against the concrete wall as he could get. The young man whimpered, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth.

Beside him, Lassiter jerked against his restraints. "Hey!" he shouted, unable to keep the waver out of his voice.

"The detective is here to make sure you do your job," the man holding the knife said, breathing tobacco-laced breath onto Shawn's face. "Once you're done, we'll let you and your boyfriend go."

Shawn made a choked sound at the insinuation but swallowed the retort on the tip of his tongue, trading it for a more pressing one.

"You're lying," he ground out. "You won't let us go."

"We will," the gruff man said earnestly. "You have my word."

Shawn huffed. "Forgive me, but I have a bit of a problem taking the word of someone who's holding me at knife point."

Reluctantly, the knife was removed, and the young man took a much-needed breath, though the air was musty and stale. Lassiter relaxed some, watching Shawn shiver and swallow several times. Blood ran from his neck in thin rivers, and the detective repressed a growl.

Shawn collected himself, taking a deep breath and locking gazes with the gruff man. "Tell me what you need."

0 o 0 o 0

"Detective, what do you have on Donovan?" Vick demanded, stopping in front of the young woman's desk and slapping her palms against the smooth, wooden surface.

Juliet slammed the phone into its cradle, looking up at her superior with both triumph and anxiety. "Donovan's in the city. According to his wife, he's been here a few days trying to 'tie up some loose ends with an old friend.'"

Vicks lips pursed, her hands shaking as she balled them into fists at her side. "I want him in custody. Now."

"Yes, Chief," the detective nodded, standing and addressing the other officers as Vick stormed to her office, slamming the door.

"Listen up, people! This," she held up a printed photo of a thirty-something man with dark, curly hair and green eyes, "is the man we're looking for. He may be involved in the abduction of Detective Lassiter and Mister Spencer." She gave the grim crowd a sharp look. "We need him alive, so nobody here had better try to be a hero." Several heads gave reluctant nods. "All right. Let's move."

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a soft, familiar voice echoed across the station.

"Excuse me."

Juliet looked towards the entryway. "Mister Dunning?" She asked, her eyebrows furrowing. "Can I help you with something?"

"I believe that we can help you, Detective," Michael said, motioning towards the door.

There was a stunned silence as Martha Sampson walked purposefully into sight and joined her companion, escorted by a curly-haired, green-eyed young man:

Chet Donovan.

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn squinted at a faded photograph of a young teenager, probably no older than fourteen. She was half-smiling, like she didn't want the picture taken but was doing if for the photographer's sake. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell just past her shoulders, and her brown eyes glinted in the afternoon sun that cast a few rays across the film. The photo was bent and wrinkled. The man obviously carried it with him everywhere.

"This is my daughter," the gruff man said, his tone surprisingly soft.

"Jessica," Shawn said without thinking. Both men in front of him stiffened, Lassiter giving him a strange look.

"That's right," the man said, a hint of hope in his voice. "Jessica. She's been missing for almost a year. The police won't do anything. They dropped her case a few months back, filed her as a runaway."

"San Francisco is a big place," Shawn murmured absently as he studied the photo. "People go missing everyday. The police don't have time to pool their efforts into one case."

Again, there was a stunned moment of silence.

"But you can help." The man's gruff voice was husky, wavering slightly in anticipation. "You can find her."

The young man's head snapped up, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. "No, I'm sorry. I can't—"

"You just gave me her name," the other interrupted desperately. "You just named the last city she was seen in, all by looking at her picture." He waved the photograph, his hand trembling a bit. "You can tell me where she is."

"I can't," Shawn pleaded exhaustedly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall.

"You can."

"I can't!" Shawn yelled, jerking against his restraints. "I can't help you like this!" He motioned toward Lassiter. "We're tired. We're cold."

"The faster you help me, the sooner you both can leave," the gruff man bargained, his tone firm. Shawn knew where he'd heard it.

"It doesn't work like that," the young man explained. "You can't just shove a picture in my face and expect me to know where she is."

"Then how does it work?"

"I need more of her things," Shawn demanded, hoping his orders would buy him and Lassie some quality talking time. "Each possession is a clue. If I put enough of them together, I can tell you where she is."

Shawn swallowed, breathing hard into the silence. The gruff man considered him for a while, the picture in his hand retreating from the dim light and finding safe haven in his front shirt pocket.

"Get these men something to sleep on," he said to the man behind him, turning and heading up the stairs. "We start again in the morning."

As soon as both men were upstairs and the door was shut, Lassiter turned on the younger man. "Spencer, what the hell was that? First you're a phony psychic, then you're a cop, and now what? You're going to tell me you're a real psychic?"

"No, Lassie, I'm still a phony," Shawn admitted rather painfully, and the detective almost regretted bringing it up. "Those men up there are Jeremy and Andrew Mavers. Jeremy's daughter, Jessica, was murdered almost a year ago."

"What?" Lassiter demanded incredulously. "How could you possibly get that from a picture?"

"I didn't," Shawn hissed, watching the door carefully. "The case was broadcasted in San Francisco for six weeks. Her picture was sent to nearly ever precinct in the state."

"I don't remember a 'Jessica Mavers,'" the detective admitted.

"That's because there is no 'Jessica Mavers,'" the young man said quickly. "Jeremy and his wife separated three years ago. She'd been living under 'Sullivan,' her mother's maiden name."

"Jessica Sullivan," Lassiter mumbled, recognizing the name. "But how did you know about it?"

"I was working a case," Shawn said, ignoring the look he received. "I followed a man to San Francisco, stayed for a week and a half. She was all over the news. Her mother was on a lot, begging for any information." He took a shallow breath, eyes still glued to the door. "So was her father. That's why I recognized him—his voice and his eyes."

"But how do you know she was murdered?" The Irishman asked.

"Because I called in a tip that week I was in San Francisco." Shawn swallowed hard. "It was Andrew Mavers. He killed Jessica."

0 o 0 o 0

"Jeremy, are you sure about this?" Andrew asked anxiously. "I mean, you've been to other psychics."

"Spencer's different," Jeremy stated, his tone matter-of-fact. "There's something about him. He's the one, Andy. He's going to find her."

"You've said that about all of them," the other murmured, rummaging through the closet for some sleeping bags.

Jeremy slammed a fist on the dining room table. "Christ, Andy! Whose side are you on?"

Andrew sighed, halting his actions and turning to his brother with a patient, practiced look. "Yours, Jer," he said softly. "You know that. I'm just saying…It's been a long time. You should think about letting her go."

Jeremy sat heavily into a wooden chair, sighing as he pulled out the photo of his daughter. He stared at it for a moment, scrubbing at his stubbled chin. "We'll see what Spencer has to say in the morning, and then we'll set them loose."

Andrew released a relieved breath, grabbing the sleeping bags and heading towards the basement. Opening the door, he was about to descend the stairs, but the hushed words that filtered up to him halted him in his tracks.

"It was Andrew Mavers. He killed Jessica."

AN: Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side. :)


	12. Chapter Twelve

AN: Well, howdy! Good to be back. And guess what? ... I HAVE A NEW LAPTOP! Oi, you have no idea how hard it's been living without one of these precious machines, especially since Puter (my old laptop) had to be retired to that big technological computer heaven in the sky. But now I have Osiris (is it weird that I name my laptops?), and updating will be so much faster. Yay! So, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. And stay tuned for the next! It'll be coming up, hopefully, by Friday (Sunday at the latest).

Chapter Twelve:

"I can't believe Shawn never mentioned this guy," Gus hissed to the man standing beside him. He and Henry watched from behind the two-way mirror of the interrogation room, where both Vick and Juliet had Donovan handcuffed.

"I can't believe Shawn had a..." Henry couldn't finish the sentence, grinding his teeth and flexing his forearms as he crossed them.

"A boyfriend?" Gus asked quietly, turning towards the older man with a pointed, accusing look. "I hate to break it to you, Mister Spencer, but Shawn's had boyfriends since—"

"Ah, ah! Gus!" The older Spencer waved a hand in the air, stopping the pharmaceutical salesman from continuing. "I'd really rather not know." There was an uncomfortable silence before Henry turned back to the young man. "What about all those girls he brought home? That girl he was with when he stole my car?"

"You mean the night he _borrowed _your car and you arrested him in front of the one girl he'd been going steady with for almost a year? The girl he was going to ask to marry him after we graduated but who wouldn't have anything to do with him after he was arrested for no reason?" Gus asked with faux curiosity.

"Marry?" Henry said, perplexed. "I've never heard him talk about marriage. _Ever_."

"And you wonder why?" The young man scoffed, shaking his head. "It was the first and _only_ time he ever said anything about it. It was the first time he'd ever said the word..." Gus returned his attention to the interrogation room.

"What word?" Henry asked quietly, dreading the fact that he probably already knew the answer.

Gus shook his head. "He liked girls, Mister Spencer." He swallowed. "And he liked boys. He was confused and scared, and the one person he should have been able to turn to was _you_."

Henry bit the inside of his cheek, shifting from foot to foot. "He should have told me something was going on."

"He shouldn't have had to," Gus corrected the man, turning and walking out the door.

0 o 0 o 0

"Officer Donovan, do you seriously expect us to believe that your presence here in Santa Barbara—the very same week that Detective Lassiter and Shawn Spencer disappear—is a coincidence?" Vick demanded, leaning towards the young man sitting on the other side of the metal table.

"I told you," Chet said calmly, familiar with the interrogation process, "I heard he was in the hospital, and I came to make sure he's all right. I've spent the past few days trying to get in touch with him. The hospital wouldn't let me see him, and there's been no answer at his apartment."

"So abducting him was your next best option?" Juliet accused, stepping forward, but Vick raised her arm, halting her.

"Detective, I don't think you need to be in here," the woman said firmly. Juliet opened her mouth to protest, but Vick interrupted. "Bring him in."

The young detective frowned, giving Donovan a dirty look before turning sharply and leaving the room. A few moments later, a very stone-faced man entered, pulling back the chair across from Chet and roughly seating himself in it.

"Officer Donovan, this is Henry Spencer, Shawn's father." Chet immediately stiffened, studying the man more carefully. He could see Shawn's chin, ears, and scowl in the older Spencer. And somehow he knew this man was the answer to the question he had asked so many years ago: _What made Shawn Spencer the way he is?_

Chet nodded respectfully. "Mister Spencer."

Henry made no move to return the gesture, opting to stare at the man instead. After a long silence, in which the two stoically kept each others' gazes, Henry spoke. "My son is missing."

The young man nodded once. "Yes, Sir," he said softly, sincerely. "I'd like to help."

Henry finally returned the nod. "I know." He turned to Vick. "Would you remove his handcuffs, please?"

Without a word, the chief complied, and Chet rubbed at his wrists as the restraints were taken off.

"Thank you, Sir," the young man said. "I'd really like to know how I can help."

"You can go home to your family," Henry replied, standing and beginning to leave the room.

"Sir."

"Henry."

Vick and Chet spoke at the same time, the chief giving the young man a stern look that quelled his protest.

"We can't allow him to leave, Henry. He's still a suspect."

"He didn't do it," the older Spencer pointed out angrily, "and you're wasting his time and ours by keeping him here."

"Nonetheless," Vick said, "he was to stay here, in custody."

Chet had no objections, allowing himself to be led to a holding cell for the night.

0 o 0 o 0

Andrew descended the stairs slowly, avoiding eye contact with either man as he spread the sleeping bags out. Silence loomed over the small, dark room, and Andrew scuffed a foot on each step as he made his way back upstairs, holding his breath the entire time.

As soon as he shut the basement door, he leaned back against it, his stomach turning nauseatingly.

Vivid, horrific images echoed behind his eyes, and he slid to the floor, pressing on his eyelids.

_Shining, brown eyes. Soft hair, long and straight. Voice begging, pleading for something he couldn't give her. _

"_Uncle Andy, please...I want you to."_

"_Jessica, you can't ask that. It's not right. Where's your dad?"_

"_If you don't, I'll tell him you did. I'll tell him you took advantage of me. He'll believe me."_

"_Why? Why would you do that?"_

"_I've seen you looking at me. I know you want it. Why won't you just—"_

"_Stop. Jessica, don't. I won't."_

"_Fine. You'll be sorry."_

"_Wait!"_

"_Get off me! Let me go!"_

"_Jessica, please! Don't—"_

"_No! Let me go! Help! Someone hel—"_

_A scream. The sickening sound of a skull cracking against a banister. Neck snapping on the stairs. Dead eyes staring up at him. _

Andy barely made it to the bathroom before he was sick, heaving long after there was nothing left to come up. He leaned back against the bathroom wall, his head in his hands and tremors wracking his thin frame.

Shawn Spencer knew.

0 o 0 o 0

"He knows," Shawn said as soon as the basement door closed.

"He knows what?" Lassiter asked, eyeing the sleeping bag beside him.

"He knows that we know."

"He knows that we know _what_?" The detective was getting tired of the cryptic answers. He was cold. He was tired. And the questionable sleeping bag was looking more and more welcoming by the second.

"He knows that we know that he killed Jessica," Shawn snapped, closing his eyes as the dark walls around him started to close in.

Lassiter turned to him with furrowed eyebrows. "He knows that?" He watched Shawn lower his head and take deep, shuddering breaths, and something in the pit of the detective's stomach dropped. "Spencer?"

"I'm fine," the young man ground out between clenched teeth. "Just...give me a minute."

"Shit," the Irishman hissed, jerking on his handcuffs. "You need your medication."

"No, I don't. I'm fine."

"You're _not _fine."

"_I said I'm fine!_" Shawn shouted, red-rimmed eyes glaring at the detective. "Just leave me the hell alone so I can think of a way to get us out of this!"

"This is not my fault, Spencer!" Lassiter returned angrily. "If you hadn't spent the last few years parading around as the resident psychic, we wouldn't be here!"

"And if _you_ had just kept your lips to yourself, I wouldn't have to worry about getting us _both _out of here!"

The head detective was thrown by the statement, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he asked, "What do you mean?"

Shawn swallowed, sighing tiredly. "They saw us. Last night on my dad's porch, they saw you..."

"The kiss," Lassiter said, his shoulders slumping as he leaned his head back against the wall.

"That's why they took you."

"And that's how they got _you_." The detective ground his teeth together. "Damn it."

Shawn's breathing was getting worse. "Say something," he wheezed desperately.

"What?"

The young man gave a fierce bark of laughter, trying to hide the tears in his eyes. "God, Lassie, just _say something_! _Anything_!" He coughed as his throat started to close. "Please," he choked.

Lassiter wracked his brain, searching for something that would keep Shawn occupied for a while. He glanced around in the dim lighting, a thought suddenly hitting him. "There aren't many basements in Santa Barbara."

Shawn stopped breathing.

0 o 0 o 0

"Andy!"

Andrew jumped as he heard his brother call his name, quickly scrambling from the bathroom floor and cautiously making his way towards the living room. He found Jeremy in front of the television, white knuckles wrapped around a remote control.

"Jer?" he asked softly, swallowing hard as the man turned around.

"Look." Jeremy pointed towards the television, and Andrew stepped closer to get a better view.

It was a press conference. An exhausted-looking woman stood behind a podium, lights flashing and microphones shoved into her face. A name appeared at the bottom of the screen: _SBPD Chief Karen Vick_.

She spoke firmly, her stern gaze sweeping the various cameras to get her point across. "Detective Lassiter went missing yesterday around 6:30 P.M., Shawn Spencer today close to 1:15 P.M." Two images appeared on screen; one displayed the scowling photograph of Carlton Lassiter, the other a grinning and goofy Shawn Spencer. The screen flipped back to the podium, where a gruff-looking man stood in Vick's place.

He cleared his throat. "My name is Henry Spencer." Even as he stated it, the name appeared in bold, white letters on the bottom of the screen. "I'm Shawn's father." Andrew shifted uncomfortably. Jeremy didn't bat an eye.

Henry continued. "Shawn was recently released from the hospital after a...suicide attempt."

"Suicide?" Andrew murmured. Perhaps they were in over their heads.

"He's been taking medication for an anxiety disorder, a medication that he doesn't have with him." Henry stopped, staring down at the piece of paper he had been reading from and frowning. He dropped the paper, bracing his hands against the podium and swallowing before speaking again, unaided.

0 o 0 o 0

"My son is very sick," Henry said to the cameras surrounding him. He couldn't remember the last time he had been part of a press conference, but it was just as unnerving as it had been before. "If anyone has any information...Please, I need to bring him home." After a moment, he stepped away, a flurry of questions following him.

"Mister Spencer! How sick is your son?"

"Is it true he was kept in the mental ward at the hospital?"

"Did the psychic visions drive him insane?"

Vick took the man's place. "No questions, please. This is about two missing men. If you have any information, please call the number on your screens. Thank you."

The chief ushered Henry back into the station, the retired officer growling as soon as they were out of ear-shot.

"I still don't understand why we couldn't tell them he isn't a psychic. It could be the reason they took him."

"And it could also be the reason he's still alive," Vick countered. "Don't make the situation worse than it is, Henry."

The man scowled, heading in a different direction. "I'm going to talk to Donovan again." Vick sighed tiredly, watching him disappear around a corner towards the holding cells.

0 o 0 o 0

Chet jumped up from an uncomfortable cot as the outer door of the holding cells opened abruptly. Henry Spencer stormed through, looking angry and flustered.

"Is it true?" The younger man asked quickly before Henry could speak.

"What?"

Chet pointed towards the television that hung in a corner just outside his cell. The images flashing across it were repeats of the press conference. "Did Shawn...try to kill himself?"

Henry didn't answer right away, wondering whether the other man had the right to know the details, but finally sighed, making a decision.

0 o 0 o 0

_//The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Fourth Chapter):_

_The week prior to Shawn's suicide attempt was like any other week. Shawn and Gus had solved another case and were planning a way to celebrate. Henry had read the article in the newspaper and, unbeknownst to anyone, had cut it out and placed it in a book that held several others just like it from past cases. He wasn't sure why he kept them. Obviously, he was proud of Shawn, even if he didn't show it. Maybe it was to remind himself why he continued to tolerate the lie Shawn had immersed himself in. _

_Shawn showed up on his front porch that night, drunk and giddy._

"_Shawn, what are you doing here?" Henry asked impatiently, blocking his son from entering. _

"_The bar—" Shawn staggered and laughed at his lack of balance. "The bar took my keys."_

"_Then why didn't you get a cab?"_

_The younger man, wavering slightly, took a moment to answer. "I don't have my wallet." Shawn's arms wind-milled sluggishly, Henry having to grab his collar to keep him from falling backwards. _

"_Then how in the hell did you buy enough alcohol to get drunk?" Henry grimaced and turned his head as his son breathed liquor-laced breath onto his face. _

"_Oh, they put it on your tab," Shawn slurred easily, as if the answer would completely satisfy any and all other questions the older man might have. "Hey! Can I...Can I crash here 'night? My apermint...apermin...apartle..My place is too far away, and I'm tired."_

_Henry frowned but stepped aside, helping the young man stumble to the couch. "Wait here, I'll get you a blanket and a pillow." He didn't wait for a response, heading up the stairs and grabbing the extra bedding from the closet. A brief glance towards Shawn's old room made him wince. He could only imagine trying to haul him up the stairs in his current state and was relieved that the young man had not objected to sleeping downstairs. _

_When Henry entered the living room again, Shawn was still sitting on the couch where he had left him. The young man's eyelids drooped, and he started to lean to his right, but just as his head was about to hit the couch cushions, his eyes snapped open, and he sat up abruptly. Henry sighed again, a gesture he couldn't seem to help when Shawn was concerned. _

_After removing Shawn's shoes and laying him down on the couch—pillow underhead—the older man covered his son with the thin fleece blanket. Shawn's eyes were closed, his breathing deep and sated. Henry shook his head, making his way out of the room. As his fingers reached for the lightswitch, however, Shawn's soft, husky voice called out. _

"_Dad?"_

_Henry turned, summoning all the maternal patience he could. "Yea, Shawn?"_

_The young man blinked groggily, frowning as he thought. "Am I a bad person?"_

_Henry groaned. "Shawn, being drunk does not give you the right to be philosophical."_

_He started to turn again, but the young man's next words halted him._

"_For lying?"_

_Henry swallowed, slowly swiveling on his feet and staring at his son, who suddenly did not seem as drunk as he had a moment ago. "Lying?" He encouraged, wondering if the ensuing conversation would be about what Henry thought it would be about._

"_About being psychic," Shawn explained, confirming Henry's fears. The older man carefully stepped forward, sitting in the armchair near the couch. _

"_You know I don't like what you do, Shawn," he started cautiously, watching his son nod, "but I don't think you're a bad person." Shawn looked somewhat relieved. "I wish you would find a different way to help people, but for now...I guess I'm glad that you're helping them at all."_

"_Thanks, Dad," Shawn yawned, closing his eyes and turning into the couch to get comfortable._

"_Goodnight, Shawn," Henry sighed, standing and heading upstairs to bed._

_Shawn was not there the next morning, the only sign of his presence being the blanket, the pillow, and a few disheveled couch cushions.//_

0 o 0 o 0

"He was in the hospital a week later," Henry said, uncomfortable with sharing the information with a stranger.

Chet listened intently, not so sure anymore that this man was the cause of Shawn's problems. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "This must be hard for you."

Henry frowned but didn't respond to the young man's sympathy, opting to change the subject to something equally uncomfortable. "You and my son were..._together_ at the academy."

Chet nodded slowly. "Yes."

"And then he left?"

The young officer winced at the abruptness of the statement but nodded again. "Yes."

Henry nodded in return, taking a seat on a nearby plastic chair. "Yea...He does that."

Chet hesitated. "Why?"

The older man eyed him with a deep scrutiny before coming to a sigh-inducing conclusion. "You were...in love with him."

Chet swallowed. Obviously, Shawn had gained quiet a few of his skills from this man.

His confession was barely a whisper. "Yes."

Henry's eyebrows furrowed as he looked away. "His mother ran off when he was young. I think...I think he got that from her." He chanced a glance in the other man's direction.

Chet's left hand was gripping a cell bar, his knuckles white and trembling. "And the disorder?" He asked carefully, not wanting to overstep his bounds. "Did he...get that from her too?"

Henry could tell that Chet was only concerned, curious about the man that he was probably still in love with. And many of the answers that Henry had were not things he wanted to dredge up again, especially for the sake of a complete stranger.

_Although_, as Shawn would say, _it's certainly cheaper than therapy._

AN: Yup! That's that. Have a good week, Kats and Kittens! See you all very, very soon. :)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

AN: Well, I realize it's been...a while. And I apologize. I just couldn't seem to find the time to get myself in gear and get this chapter done. There was a lot I wanted to put in here (even more than I already have), but we'll save that for the next chapter, which is in progress and going quickly, I promise. Please rest assured, I have not forgotten about this fic, and I will definitely be finishing it. School be damned! Last year of college? Bah! Who needs an education? Enjoy. :)

_Chapter Thirteen:_

_Shawn. Wasn't. Breathing._

"Spencer?" Lassiter hissed, his heart thudding against his ribcage painfully. When no answer came, he tried to move towards the younger man, digging his heels into the concrete floor and scooting as close as he could get. "Shawn! Answer me! What's going on?"

Shawn wasn't wheezing, wasn't fighting for air, wasn't moving. He was...staring.

"Don't do this, Spencer," the detective hissed desperately, straining against his handcuffs. His wrists ached, the skin beneath the cool metal chaffing. He could feel the beginnings of warm liquid beading as he tugged harder. "Breathe! Damn it, Shawn, breathe!"

The basement door opened, suddenly, and the Mavers brothers trekked down the stairs heavily, dark, accusing eyes set on Shawn's still figure.

0 o 0 o 0

_//The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Fifth Chapter): _

_Shawn had only ever stopped breathing once in his childhood. He'd been at school, and his fifth-grade teacher had stopped in front of his desk, arms crossed and eyes ablaze with impatience. _

"_Well, Mister Spencer?" she asked, her voice a whole three pitches higher than normal. "Where did your homework go this time?"_

_Normally, Shawn was more than happy to tell the teacher that his invisible dog tore his homework to shreds or that he'd accidentally sent it to the dry cleaners and brought his dirty underwear for her instead or that he just hadn't had the time while saving his parents from space-invading zombies with an appetite for human brains. What Shawn didn't want to tell the teacher was that he had accidentally left his backpack in the office of his therapist. _

_The young boy's gaze shifted to the desk next to him, where Gus sat with a sympathetic look. _

"_Mister Spencer, I'm waiting."_

_Shawn hated how teachers punished students for interrupting class but felt it necessary to interrupt class to punish students. He also hated how his chest was tightening around his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. _

"_Shawn?" Gus whispered from his seat, immediately sensing something strange about his friend._

"_Quiet," the teacher snapped with irritation. "Mister Spencer, if you cannot produce your homework by the count of five, I am going to send you to the principals office." _

_Shawn shuddered, closing his eyes as his throat closed around the words he wanted to say. _

"_Mrs. Leevey." Gus raised his hand quickly, his eyes widening as Shawn's lips began to turn blue. "I think Shawn's sick."_

"_One." The teacher started to count with annoyance._

"_But Mrs. Leevey—" _

"_Two." Mrs. Leevey's cheeks were coloring, the hair on her arms bristling. Shawn's fingers curled into his palms as his tongue dried out and his lungs ached for air. _

"_Thr—"_

"_Wait!" Gus cried, standing up and leaning over his friend. "Shawn! Shawn, what's wrong?"_

"_Burton, get back in your seat!" the teacher said with astonishment. Gus was usually her star pupil, and she had high hopes for his future once she finally whipped Shawn Spencer into shape. The two were as thick as thieves, inseparable. Yes, changing the young trouble-maker was for the best, if not for his own sake, then for Guster's. _

_Gus turned on the woman, a hard look in his eyes that made her falter. "Mrs. Leevey, look at him! Something's wrong! He needs the school nurse."_

_Mrs. Leevey's eyebrows knitted skeptically, taking in Shawn's pale face, darkening lips, and distressed features. With a tightening of her lips she nodded. "I'll be right back. Burton, watch the classroom for me."_

_Gus rolled his eyes as their teacher left the room. She still showed favoritism in a time of crisis. Gus turned back to his friend, concern written on his face. _

"_Shawn?" he asked timidly. The other boy looked up at him, tears in his eyes as small wheezing noises escaped his lips. "This is for real, right? You're not just joking, are you?"_

_Shawn shook his head, loosing the building tears and quickly wiping them away as they streaked down his flushed cheeks. Gus grasped his shoulder firmly, steadying him as his head started to spin. _

"_Just put your head down on the desk," Gus suggested, ignoring the prying eyes of the curious students around them. Following Gus's orders, Shawn laid his head on his desk, closing his eyes and concentrating on the burning in his throat and chest. Slowly, the muscles in his throat relaxed, and blessed air began to trickle down into his lungs, relieving the burning. _

_Beside him, Gus sighed. "You okay, Shawn? Are you feeling better?"_

"_Yea," Shawn whispered against a raw throat. _

_Suddenly, the teacher burst into the classroom, the school nurse, Ms. Roberts, at her heels. "He's there," Mrs. Leevey pointed at Shawn with an accusing finger, as if she were pointing to someone who was about to be arrested. _

_Ms. Roberts approached him quickly, taking his face in her bony hands. Feeling her cold, paper-thin skin against his flushed cheeks made Shawn cringe, and he sucked in a sharp breath. After a moment of complete silence and a brief examination of Shawn's vitals, the nurse huffed and nodded. "He seems all right now. No need to worry."_

_Mrs. Leevey crossed her arms and squinted at the trouble-maker. "I knew you were faking." She stepped forward, a claw-like hand stretched out to grab his arm. "You're coming with me to the principals office right now."_

_Shawn cowered as she drew nearer, but before she could touch him, the nurse swatted Mrs. Leevey's hand away, leaving the younger woman wide-eyed and speechless. "This boy is not faking anything, Mrs. Leevey. He's still sick, and he will be accompanying me to the nurses office." Ms. Roberts smiled sweetly. "If you don't mind, of course."_

_Mrs. Leevey's face turned an embarrassing shade of red as she nodded and cleared her throat. "Of course, Ms. Roberts. If you...think it's necessary."_

"_I do," the nurse proclaimed with an utter finality in her tone. She turned to Gus. "Young man, will you help me assist your friend to the office?" Gus nodded emphatically. "Very good. Now, put his arm around your neck—just like that, yes. Good, let's go, then."_

_Under the scrutiny of several pairs of eyes—and one smoldering gaze—Shawn, Gus, and Ms. Roberts weaved their way around desks and chairs, exiting without so much as another glance towards everyone else. _

_In the nurses office, Gus helped Shawn onto an empty cot, turning to Ms. Roberts with a determined look on his face. "I'd like to stay, Ms. Roberts."_

_The nurse looked down at him sternly, her lips crinkling into wrinkled lines of disapproval. "Young man, you still have class. You should be on your way back, now."_

_Gus shook his head. "I'd like to stay, Ms. Roberts," he repeated firmly. "Please. He's my best friend, and I want to make sure he's all right."_

_Sighing, Ms. Roberts studied him carefully then nodded in defeat. "You can talk to him for a moment. But be quick about it. He needs some rest." She turned her back, heading into her office._

"_Yes, Ma'am. I'll be quick." He sat carefully next to Shawn, pursing his lips before speaking. "You okay, Shawn?"_

_The other boy took a deep, wheezing breath, nodding and saying, "I'm fine, Gus. Thanks." Receiving a skeptical look in response, he rolled his eyes and sighed. "I said I'm fine, so I'm fine. You can go."_

"_Liar," Gus accused, elbowing him lightly. _

"_Jeez, Gus, don't be such a squishy squid." Shawn smiled, putting one arm around his friend's shoulders. "Did you see the look in Leevey's eyes? She was so mad!"_

_Gus laughed. "You're going to pay _big time _for that. She'll have you cleaning erasers for the rest of your life!"_

"_Totally worth it."//_

0 o 0 o 0

"Kid never said he was sick," Jeremy muttered, giving the supposed psychic a skeptical look.

"He's not breathing," Lassiter blurted, and both men stood very still for a moment, watching the young man.

Jeremy leaned down. "Hey, kid," he murmured, snapping his fingers in Shawn's face. When he got no reaction, he placed a hand in front of the young man's nose and mouth. With a grunt, he stood, a frown on his face.

"He's breathing," Jeremy said. "Just slow, is all."

The Irishman held his breath, watching Shawn more carefully and huffing in relief as he noticed that Shawn's chest was, in fact, moving just slightly.

"What should we do?" Andrew asked quietly. He swallowed hard, studying the young man as he contemplated this turn of events. Shawn Spencer knew. Shawn Spencer could ruin everything. And Shawn Spencer was sick. If something happened—if Shawn Spencer died here in Jeremy's home in Santa Monica, an hour-and-a-half away from Santa Barbara and the medication he needed—it would be an awful tragedy and something that neither man could have foreseen...

"Take him upstairs," Jeremy ordered, shaking Andrew from his thoughts. "But keep an eye on him. He's no good to us dead." His gaze wandered to Lassiter and hardened. "And if this is some sort of trick—"

The detective shook his head, wary of the look that Andrew was giving Shawn. The young man had mentioned earlier that Andrew knew what _they _knew. And if the younger of the Mavers brothers was capable of what Shawn said he was, Lassiter could only imagine what he had in store for them. "If anything happens to him—"

"Relax, Detective," Jeremy said. Andrew unlocked Shawn's cuffs, hauling him up over his shoulder and trekking back up the stairs. "We'll take good care of your boyfriend."

"He's not—" Lassiter growled, stopping himself and opting to glare at the other man instead. Jeremy only smirked, following after his brother and turning out the light at the top of the stairs before slamming the door shut.

Lassiter let loose a frustrated gust of air as the sound of a lock sliding into place echoed throughout the basement.

0 o 0 o 0

"What do you want me to do with him?" Andrew asked, shifting the young man on his shoulder slightly.

"Put him on the couch. Keep an eye on him, though. It might be some sort of trick," Jeremy said uneasily, narrowing his eyes at the psychic's blank face. He turned and made his way down the opposite end of the corridor as Andrew headed towards the den.

Shawn was unceremoniously plopped onto the couch, laying so that he faced the ceiling. He stared through carefully vacant eyes, wary of the man that sat in an armchair opposite the couch.

Andrew was an intimidating man, Shawn admitted to himself. He was muscular and tall; two traits that the young man didn't like to mix because he seemed to lack both qualities himself. But something was making Shawn's senses buzz. Alarms screamed from every corner of his mind—_danger, Will Robinson, danger_! He itched all over, the uncomfortable feeling reaching deep beneath his skin and penetrating his insides. _Itchy Insides—_sounded like a heavy metal rock band. Perhaps he needed that medication more than he thought...

"You know I killed her," Andrew said suddenly, his fingers drumming a harsh beat on the arms of his chair.

Shawn didn't budge, didn't even blink. Andrew was confessing. And as unexpected as it was, it also meant big trouble for Shawn and Lassie. Didn't the villain usually reveal himself to his captives before killing them? The young man repressed the need to gulp ominously.

"And you know it was an accident," the Mavers brother continued. His voice was barely above a whisper, as if this place were a confessional and Shawn his priest. The young man didn't want to be a priest. He didn't want to be anything at the moment but free and with Lassie. "She wanted..." Andrew stopped and swallowed. "...something I couldn't give her."

He wiped a hand down his face, and Shawn noticed the tears—also something unexpected. A crying villain? Or was Andrew the victim...Shawn's head started to pound, the buzzing gaining volume and intensity. His skull was vibrating beneath his scalp, begging for relief.

Andrew cleared his throat, waiting a moment before speaking again. "The man on the news...your father—" Shawn resisted the urge to stiffen "—he said you tried to kill yourself."

Things were quiet for a while before the young man finally made a decision.

0 o 0 o 0

"There's something between them."

Gus looked away from the television to the man standing in the cell on the other side of the bars he was leaning on. He liked Chet. He was everything that Gus loved about Shawn, without the pranks and awkward nicknames.

"Between who?" Gus asked, passing the man some popcorn. The two had been able to finish off two bags of M&M's (plain because they were both allergic to peanuts), a six pack of Coca~Cola, and now a third bowl of popcorn.

"Shawn," Chet said with a great deal of certainty, "and that detective."

"Oh, Jules? Nah, not really. They just sort of skirt around each other. It's nothing serious." The pharmaceutical salesman picked up his Coke, taking a swig.

"No," Chet shook his head, taking another handful of popcorn, "I mean the other one. His name's Lassiter, right?"

Gus choked on his pop, coughing for a good minute before turning to the other incredulously. "Are you _kidding_?" he squeaked, looking behind him to make sure no one else was listening. He leaned toward the cell. "Shawn and Lassiter?"

Chet's eyebrows rose, as if his inquiry hadn't just opened up every can of worms in the book. "Yea." Gus continued to gawk. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"When it's Lassiter and Shawn?" the other man huffed. "Absolutely. Undeniably. There is _nothing _going on between those two."

Chet shrugged, munching on his snack.

"Seriously!" Gus continued, as if trying to convince himself more than the other man. "Lassiter would probably _kill _Shawn before he ever kissed him."

"Okay," Chet said nonchalantly.

"I mean it," Gus said, just to emphasize his point.

Chet nodded. "I understand."

There was a silent moment.

"But say he was..."

Gus frowned. "So?"

Chet shrugged again, his gaze solely held by the television. "What, um...What do you think of him?"

It took Gus a moment to figure out what Chet was asking. "Lassiter's okay." He settled back against the bars again. "A little trigger happy, maybe. But generally a good guy."

"You think he deserves Shawn?"

"I don't think _anybody_ deserves Shawn," Gus admitted before he could stop himself. Somehow, though, he didn't feel as self-conscious around this man. "But...he could do worse."

Chet nodded slowly. "He's really never mentioned me?"

Gus smiled sympathetically. "He's really never mentioned a lot of things. It's just his way of dealing. Don't take it personally."

"_You _don't take it personally?" Chet asked curiously.

Gus huffed with amusement. For someone who claimed to know Shawn so well, he certainly had more than enough to learn about the young man. "With Shawn it's _always _personal. But if you _take_ it personally, he runs."

Chet thought about that. "I guess that's why he always seems to make his way back here—" He gave Gus a scrutinizing look. "—back home."

0 o 0 o 0

_//The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Sixth Chapter): _

_Gus could remember every postcard ever sent by Shawn Spencer. Each one started the same. _

"_Hey, Gus!"_

_And each one ended with the pharmaceutical salesman's heart dropping just a bit more. _

"_I'll see you soon, man."_

_But one postcard in particular had always stayed with Gus. He knew it word for word, even though it was from several years ago. The card itself sported a funny-shaped heart on the front with the words "Be Mine" stamped off-center and lopsided. Gus wondered where it had come from, whether Shawn had bought it from a shady gas station or if the young man had adopted the creative qualities of a five-year-old and made it himself. There was no return address—there never was—and the card had been routed through Valentine, Nebraska, as many Valentine's Day letters were around this certain holiday. This fact had made Gus leery of it to begin with. Shawn had never so much as given him a box of chalky heart candies. Why would he take the time to send a Valentine, much less a Valentine stamped by a famous town named for the holiday?_

"_Hey, Gus! Happy Valentine's Day. Hope things are well in good ol' SB. I met someone, can you believe it? I have loads to tell you, so save me a piece of that heart-shaped chocolate cake your mom makes, okay? I'll see you soon, man."_

_As far as postcards went, it had seemed pretty ordinary at the time. Gus had shrugged and tossed it on the pile of others he received every other week. He should have known better, but Shawn mentioned someone new in almost every letter. He should have read between the lines, should have seen the difference in the writing style. It wasn't a fast, unreadable script like it usually was. It was thought-out, nice. Gus had assumed it was because it was a Valentine. _

_And that was his first mistake: Gus had assumed.//_

0 o 0 o 0

Gus frowned as he thought about that postcard. What was the year he'd gotten it? A quick calculation in his head verified that the date corresponded with his time in the academy. And if Chet was being as honest as everyone thought he was, the Valentine would have also corresponded with Shawn and Chet's time together at the academy. But Chet couldn't be...

Gus glanced at the other man skeptically. Chet's attention was drawn back to the television, his hand absently reaching for the popcorn that Gus held. When the officer's fingers groped only air, he turned back to the other man, eyebrows knitting.

"Everything all right?" he asked carefully, seeing the strange look on Gus's face.

Holding out the popcorn, Gus nodded. "Yea, everything's fine." He took a breath, drawing his lips into a thin line before speaking again. "You want to know why he always seems to make his way back to Santa Barbara?"

The popcorn in Chet's hand stopped midway to his open mouth, and he stared at the pharmaceutical salesman dumbly for a moment before nodding. Gus frowned at the popcorn bowl.

"He's afraid," he said simply. "He likes change, but things get too real out there, wherever he goes. Life creeps up on him, and he has to run back to the one place he's ever felt safe." A bitter smile tainted Gus's lips. "He has to run away from running away."

0 o 0 o 0

Lassiter winced when the light in the basement flickered on, blinding him momentarily as quick footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Lassie!" Shawn's voice was hurried and thick with concern.

The detective blinked a few times, a familiar face focusing before him. "Shawn?" he hissed, looking behind the young man. Andrew stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed and sharp eyes watching them critically. "What's going on?"

"We're getting out of here."

AN: Another cliff hanger. I know, I'm horrible. I can't help myself. How else am I going to get you to keep reading? Well, the next chapter should be up soon. I already have an ending written for this fic...mostly. I have it in mind, at least, so all I have to do is fill the in-between. :) Shouldn't be too hard. Again, I'm really sorry it's taken so long to get this story back on target, but I'm really glad to have it up and running once more. Hope to catch you all in the next chapter! Later, Gators!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

AN: Wow! Sorry it's been so long, you guys. I've been getting some really great reviews! And we're almost to the end. If my calculations are correct (and they usually aren't), there should only be two more chapters. :) I hope you guys are still out there! Thanks so much for all your support, and I promise to try and get this thing done before Christmas. Really, really, I do. Enjoy this next chapter!

_Chapter Fourteen:_

"We're _what_?" Lassiter hissed, gaze wandering warily over Shawn's shoulder as the younger man leaned over him to unlock his handcuffs.

"I said," Shawn grunted, fitting the small key into the first cuff lock, then the second, "we're getting out of here." The metal objects made a satisfactory clattering noise as they fell to the concrete.

Bringing his wrists around and rubbing them gingerly, Lassiter winced. "What the hell is going on here, Spencer? What is _he _doing down here?"

Shawn glanced behind him, giving Andrew a smile before turning back to the detective. "Well, Lassie, he lives here." Lassiter let loose a frustrated growl, but before he could say anything, Shawn continued. "He's helping us get out of here. We've got about a two-hour drive ahead of us, so we better get going!"

"Two-hour drive?" Lassiter repeated dumbly. Taking the offered hand, he stood to wobbling legs, using the younger man to steady himself. "Where are we?"

Shawn started towards the stairs, having to nearly drag the other man along. "Santa Monica."

0 o 0 o 0

_The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Seventh Chapter):_

_When Shawn Spencer was kidnapped by the Mavers brothers, he thought that nothing could be worse than being handcuffed in a dingy basement with a cranky detective, a slowly failing mind, and no bathroom. But the young man was wrong—because being trapped in a room with a murderer who knew that Shawn was fully aware of what he was, having no way to defend himself, and still having no bathroom looked to be far worse. So Shawn wasn't exactly sure what he was doing when he sat up on the couch in the Mavers' living room and faced his enemy, but he sure as hell hoped he was making the right choice. _

_Andrew sat in an armchair across from the couch, not in the least bit surprised when Shawn finally rose from his "catatonic" state. Folding his legs beneath him Indian-style, the young man situated himself so that he faced his captor. The room was dim, the light from the hall silhouetting Andrew's form. This made him difficult to read, but Shawn put a great amount of effort into trusting his instincts about the man. _

"_It's true," Shawn said quietly, referring to Andrew's statement about his suicide. "I was in the hospital for a while, then at my dad's."_

"_So you're really...sick?" Andrew asked, not quite sure how to inquire about another person's mental issues. There must be an etiquette book somewhere about that sort of thing...._

"_Since I was young." Shawn wasn't at all sure why he was admitting these things to a complete stranger. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping him alive. Or maybe it could gain him a little sympathy. The man was a killer, not a sociopath, afterall. "I have an anxiety disorder. My head—" He gestured to his right temple, tapping it twice. "—gets overloaded. I get...confused, and my mind shuts down. Sometimes I have trouble breathing."_

"_Is it because you're a psychic? 'Cause of those visions you get in your head?"_

_Shawn mentally kicked himself for ever pretending to be a psychic. Silently vowing that if he got out of this alive he would go on national television and proclaim to anyone who would listen that he _wasn't_ psychic, that he was just damn good at seeing things other people didn't look for, he closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, enjoying the sensation of air in his lungs. _

"_I'm not...I don't really...."_

"_You're not a psychic," Andrew finished for him, and Shawn swallowed hard, nodding. _

_Opening his eyes, the younger man took in Andrew's somber expression. "You don't seem...surprised."_

_Andrew shrugged. "I didn't really believe all that psychic shit to begin with," he admitted nonchalantly. "Jeremy's obsessed with you people. We've spent all of our money on psychics. We don't have anything left. This was just...a last resort."_

"_You spent all your money," Shawn started slowly, hoping he wouldn't over-step any bounds that hadn't been established yet, "even though you knew? You let him think that she's still alive? That she's still out there, waiting for him to find her?"_

_Shifting uncomfortably, Andrew bit the inside of his cheek, frowning. "I didn't know what else to do. How the hell do you tell your big brother that his daughter...that his little girl did something like that?" Tears welled in his eyes again as he covered his mouth with his left hand, his shoulder shaking as he sobbed. _

_Shawn waited a moment before asking the question that he was sure Andrew knew was coming. "Andrew...what did she do?" The younger Mavers brother only shook his head, unable to say anything. Shawn waited patiently while the other man composed himself, drawing in deep, sticcatoed breaths._

"_Sh-She...She wanted me to have sex with her," Andrew whispered, closing his eyes as if he were ashamed to even speak the words, as if the entire ordeal had been his fault. "She said if I didn't, she would tell Jeremy that I'd raped her. We struggled, and she...she fell down the stairs." Images flashing behind hiss eyelids, Andrew grimaced, covering his face with his hands. "She broke her neck." He turned suddenly, staring over his shoulder at the bottom of the staircase that could just barely be seen from Shawn's position on the couch. "She died right there, in that very spot."_

_Shawn's stomach reeled. He could see everything—the argument, the fall, the young teen sprawled on the ground and staring at him with lifeless eyes. He had to shake himself, suck in a sharp breath. "And...what did you do with her?"_

"_I asked a Marine buddy of mine," Andrew said quickly, as if the confession couldn't fall past his lips fast enough, "if I could borrow the keys to the morgue, where he works." He looked at Shawn accusingly. "I didn't tell him anything. I just asked for the key and told him it was important. He didn't ask any questions, so he didn't know." _

_Shawn nodded. He could understand that. Andrew was protecting a friend, much like Shawn was trying to protect Lassiter. The Marine at the morgue could probably suffer some consequences for his actions if Andrew planned on giving him up, which didn't seem likely. _

"_She's hidden in an unmarked drawer. I broke the lock." He shook his head, as if trying to deny the words he was saying, but persisted in his explanation. "I...I tried to put her in the furnace, that thing they use to cremate people, but...but I looked at her, and I just couldn't do it. I couldn't do that to my brother's little girl."_

_Swallowing, Shawn took a deep breath. "Andrew," he said with an airy voice, "I need you to let me and Detective Lassiter go."_

_Andrew shook his head. "Jeremy won't allow that."_

"_I understand," the younger man said, though he didn't, really—couldn't. "Your brother has been searching for her for a long time. And he won't stop."_

"_He said he would," the youngest of the Mavers brothers countered. "He said he'd let you go. Just wait till morning. He'll...He said..." Andrew was looking more and more uncertain about his words._

"_He's lost his daughter, Andrew. You don't think he'll actually let us go, do you?" Shawn asked incredulously. "He's angry and upset. And he might do something you'll both regret, especially if I have to tell him something he doesn't want to hear."_

_Andrew looked up in alarm. "You wouldn't tell him about—"_

"_No," Shawn amended quickly, shaking his head and raising his hands in defense. "No, I wouldn't tell him what really happened...but I'll have to tell him something. And he won't like it." Andrew considered the words. "You have to let us go. It's the only way that no one is going to get hurt."_

"_He'll be angry."_

"_Better angry than a cop-killer." Shawn meant the statement as a warning against killing his new love interest...or supposed love interest. He wasn't quite sure what they were, he and Lassie. Andrew, however, read into the warning more deeply. _

"_You're a cop?"_

_The younger man was at a loss for words. Technically? Yes, he supposed he was a police officer. He had the paper to prove it. But he wasn't a cop at heart. He hadn't grown up wanting to be a cop. Even when he and Gus had played cops and robbers, Shawn had always insisted on being the bad guy. It was more fun, more exciting. Being chased, being caught, escaping—it all seemed so much more interesting than sitting behind a desk all day and filling out paperwork, like he had seen his father do too often. The life of a cop was not interesting, at least not in Shawn's mind. _

"_No," he answered with a sigh. "But Lassie is. And he's the one I need to get out of here before something happens—to us or to you and your brother."//_

0 o 0 o 0

"Chief!"

Juliet entered Vick's office in a hurry, halting abruptly as three pairs of eyes landed on her. Henry and Gus stood stoically in front of the police chief's desk, the younger's eyes welling with tears.

Swallowing hard, the junior detective shook her head in disbelief. "N-No. No!"

"We don't know anything yet, O'Hara," Vick admonished, her voice thick with emotion. "It was just a phone call. It may not even be true."

Henry huffed, holding what little composure he had with all the strength he could muster. "Two bodies, Karen, both matching Lassiter and . . . Shawn's descriptions down to the last things they were seen wearing. How could that not be . . ." His throat closed around the rest of the words.

Vick was quiet for a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "I've sent officers to the site. If they find anything, they'll contact us immediately, and we'll know . . ."

"And then we'll know it's my son," Henry managed past the lump in his throat. No one had the energy or the confidence to refute the comment.

0 o 0 o 0

"Santa Monica?" Lassiter repeated, grunting with the exertion of climbing the stairs. His legs were still weak, and his head was swimming from having to move so quickly after being still for so long. "What are we doing in—"

"Lassie, there's no time for this," Shawn said breathlessly, glancing up at the basement door with uncertainty. "As soon as we're out of here, I'll answer anything you ask. Just...let's get out of here first, okay?"

The detective had no complaints about leaving, so he nodded his head, helping Shawn as best he could to get them both up the last few steps. Andrew stood at the top already, his hand on the doorknob.

"We have to hurry," he said quietly, his lips pressing together into grim lines. Lassiter glared at him through narrowed eyes. It had to be a trick. There was no way a captor would allow his victims to leave without some kind of consequence. The Irishman had studied hundreds of profiles, knew every reason behind every action in a serial killer's mind. This didn't make any sense. Andrew motioned for them to hurry.

The doorknob turned in his hand by itself.

0 o 0 o 0

The phone on Vick's desk rang loudly in the quiet room, startling all four occupants. The police chief held her breath as she forced herself not to snatch the phone from its cradle. "Vick," she answered curtly.

The look on her face remained pale and grim as she listened. "You're sure?" she asked in a small voice, pausing again. "Okay. Thank you." She slowly lowered the phone back into its cradle, her arms feeling heavy and boneless.

0 o 0 o 0

The doorknob was ripped from the younger Mavers brother's grip as the door swung open violently. Jeremy stood in the basement doorway, gun in hand and a confused look on his face. "Andrew? What's going on here?"

Andrew couldn't take his eyes off of the gun, his eyes wide and his mouth agape slightly. "What are you doing, Jeremy?" he asked instead of answering, his hands beginning to shake at his sides.

Jeremy frowned, his grip on the gun tightening. "I've called the Santa Barbara police . . . told them where they could find the bodies."

Shawn and Lassiter both stiffened.

"I thought . . ." Andrew started, having to swallow and take a breath before continuing. "I thought you said we were going to let them go."

"Is that what you were doing?" the elder Mavers brother growled, bringing the gun up and pointing it in Shawn's direction. "You were letting them go?"

"You said . . . You said we were going to," Andrew protested feebly, shifting uncomfortably. "You said we were just going to let them leave. No harm done."

Lassiter snorted, gaining unwanted attention from Jeremy.

Jeremy shook his head. "They can't go, Andy. Just like the others. We can't just let them leave. They'll lead the cops back here."

"They're hurt," the younger Mavers brother pleaded. "They need to go home, Jeremy . . . We need to let them go."

"I'm sorry," Jeremy whispered, cocking back the hammer on the gun and steadying his hand. The barrel of the gun stared down into Shawn's unwavering gaze.

0 o 0 o 0

"Well?" Henry spat anxiously when Vick remained quiet.

The police chief looked up and around at each person in turn before saying, "Our officers have found them."

Gus's knees buckled, and he collapsed backwards into a chair by the desk. Juliet's eyes could no longer hold the barrier of tears at bay, and rivers began to stream down her face. Only Henry remained unaffected, having seen something else in Vick's expression. Placing both hands on the chief's desk, palms down, he leaned forward over her nameplate, over her pictures of her husband and child and cups of pens and pencils.

Vick locked her gaze to his, the corners of her mouth tightening as she said, "Alive."

0 o 0 o 0

"Jeremy," Andrew whispered, placing a hand on his brother's arm and lowering the gun, "Jessica is dead."

Jeremy's face crumpled despite the shaking of his head. "Did he tell you that?" he demanded, motioning towards Shawn and looking angrily into the fake psychic's eyes. "Did you tell him that? It's not true. You're lying."

Andrew choked on the words that wanted to escape his throat, but he managed to get them out. "He's telling the truth. Jessica . . . Jessica is dead."

"_How do you know_?" Jeremy yelled hysterically. "You can't know that! He's lying! He's . . ."

"I killed her, Jeremy."

Silence fell over everything, hanging in the air like a thick cloud of smog, smothering their voices. Jeremy stared wide-eyed at his younger brother, unbelieving. He whipped around to Shawn, his teeth clenched and a growl emitting from deep in his throat.

"What did you do?" he raged. "What did you do to my brother? You made him think he killed my daughter? You made him think—"

"He didn't do anything!" Andrew exclaimed, boldly stepping in front of the gun, though his entire body shook with terror. He looked into his brother's tired, angry, pleading eyes and, suddenly, couldn't keep the information barricaded any longer. "Jessica is dead because I killed her, Jeremy." He swallowed and drew in a breath, drew in the courage he needed to confess his most horrifying secret. "She . . . She came on to me. She wanted me to . . . Jeremy, she was going to tell you I raped her. She was going to lie to you, and you were going to believe her! It was an accident . . . She fell down the stairs. She broke her neck. Jeremy, I'm so . . . I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to—"

A gunshot echoed off the walls.

AN: Well, that's just not a very good place to stop at all, is it? Dang...Guess I'll have to update here really soon, huh? I know this chapter is disappoingtingly shorter than the last one, but the next two should be epic. Promise! Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

AN: Well, as far as I know, this is the second-to-last chapter. Hopefully the last chapter won't take too long. I have most of it written out, but I am really contemplating changing the ending. It needs a complete make-over, I think...but we'll see. Hope you guys are still out there! It's almost finished! Thanks so much for sticking with me! Enjoy this chapter and the conclusion when it comes out. :)

Chapter Fifteen:

Andrew lay at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling around his head like a distorted halo. Jeremy had shot his brother in the chest—but that hadn't been what had killed the younger man. Ironically, his neck had snapped halfway down the stairs.

Shawn forced himself to stop thinking. He'd been around plenty of shooting in his time—especially Lassie's shooting. The only things he'd ever shot were the targets at the academy . . . and himself. But that was an entirely different story.

0 o 0 o 0

_//The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Eighth Chapter): _

"_Shawn, don't!" Chet dove for the gun that Shawn had aimed at the side of his head. They struggled and froze when the gun went off. _

_Chet would remember later the look of relief on Shawn's face, not because Chet had stopped him from killing himself but because of the pain that the gun had released in him. _

_Chet felt the warm liquid sliding down his leg before he saw it, and when he looked down, he almost gagged. Blood was gushing from a wound in Shawn's left thigh, the red liquid already soaking not only his pant leg but Chet's as well. _

"_Jesus, Shawn," he panted, catching the younger man as he started to slip to the ground. The gun clattered to the dormitory floor, and the two men slumped in its wake. "Fuck! What were you thinking?" He pressed on the wound and looked up, hoping that someone had heard the gunshot and at least come looking to see what happened. It was a holiday weekend. A lot of people were home seeing their families. Chet was supposed to be halfway to his parents' house but had forestalled the trip, hoping that Shawn would change his mind about going home with him. _

_Joshua, Shawn's neighbor, bounded into the room, gun drawn and hair wild as if he had just woken up. Judging by the look of his Arizona Police Academy t-shirt and Blue Devils boxers, he probably had. _

"_What happened?" he demanded, searching the room with a guarded but amateur precision. "What happened? I heard a gunshot."_

_Chet hesitated for only a second, a hesitation that went straight over Joshua's head—but one that the wired young man would think about more clearly as the years passed. _

"_Misfire. His gun just . . . went off."_

_Joshua took a moment to absorb the lie that Chet had given him before attempting to put his gun in a nonexistent holster at his side, then settling on holding it casually in one hand pointed towards the floor. It was only then that he noticed the blood, and he paled immediately. _

"_Oh my God," he said, swallowing the bile building at the back of his throat. It was his first week—and, coincidentally, he wouldn't make it to his second._

"_Josh, I need you to call an ambulance," Chet said hurriedly. Joshua remained transfixed by the blood spurting between Chet's fingers. "Josh!" The other man started. "Go call an ambulance!"_

_Josh nodded vigorously, turning with one last look at his bleeding neighbor. _

_Chet closed his eyes and breathed in the metallic scent of copper, pressing harder on the wound. No one would understand if he told the truth. Shawn was only a week away from graduating. If they knew what he had almost done, what had been happening almost the entire time at the academy . . . Shawn would be finished. They'd deem him unfit to be a police officer. _

_Of course, Chet knew Shawn couldn't be a police officer in the state he was in, but if they just let him graduate, if they could see past the lazy and sometimes crazy exterior and notice how dedicated he was to becoming an officer . . . . Chet hadn't seen anyone in his time here more dedicated than Shawn, and he'd be damned if he was going to let people who were just looking for an excuse to kick him out get anywhere near him. _

_Shawn would find help, Chet would make sure of it. _

_One week later, Shawn graduated—and then he was gone.//_

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn came back to himself as the barrel of a gun was pressed against his head.

"You," Jeremy whispered, unshed tears swimming in his eyes. "You made me do that. This is all your fault."

Shawn said nothing, so Lassiter spoke for him. "No," he said firmly. "This is not his fault. _You _shot your brother—_you're _the one holding the gun."

Jeremy pulled the hammer back. "_Shut up_!" he yelled, pressing harder. "Just shut the hell up!" His hand began to tremble. "It _is _his fault! Him and those damn powers. He made Andrew say those things. He made me . . . made me . . ." His finger tightened dangerously on the trigger.

"I did," Shawn muttered, and Jeremy gasped, as if he hadn't believed it before. His grip on the gun loosened.

"Spencer," the detective hissed, barely daring to breathe.

Shawn turned slowly until he faced the only remaining Mavers brother, the barrel of the gun resting snugly against his forehead. "I did, Jeremy. It's my fault."

"Spencer, _shut up_!" Lassiter said desperately.

But Shawn persisted. "I killed your brother." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward the dead man at the bottom of the stairs. "Look at him. All that blood. And his neck, Jeremy. Do you see it?"

Jeremy tried to remain stubborn. But the second his eyes wandered in the direction that Shawn was pointing, he couldn't pull his gaze away.

Lassiter watched with bated breath as Shawn kept Jeremy's attention with the hand point toward Andrew . . . and slowly moved his other hand up toward the gun. The fact that it was a ploy made the detective feel relieved, but he also felt guilty for thinking, if only for a moment, that Shawn had been trying to kill himself again. It was practical, he argued with himself. Shawn had been off his meds for who knew how long already—long enough to make him revert to his old ways? Possibly. Lassiter still couldn't help but feel that a part of Shawn had wanted Jeremy to pull the trigger—that the detective was the only reason he was trying to make it out of this alive.

At the last moment, Jeremy noticed, and his fingers squeezed the trigger. Another gunshot range through the basement.

0 o 0 o 0

Chet sat up on the cot in his cell, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Something was wrong. His stomach clenched painfully, and he doubled over with dry heaves. Gus stood near the cell, watching with sympathy.

"Something . . ." Chet started, coughing harshly and wiping his mouth before continuing. "Something's happened." He craned his neck to look at the man standing on the other side of the bars. "What's going on?"

"They found Shawn and Lassiter," Gus said quietly as an officer stepped around him and unlocked the cell door. "They're alive."

Chet stood and exited the small space gratefully, rubbing his wrists anxiously as if he had been shackled as well as imprisoned. He wanted to feel relief, but something still wasn't right. "But . . . ?" he asked with dread.

Gus sighed. The words on the tip of his tongue seemed to be memorized and practiced. Even the expression on his face was schooled, cool and calm. But Chet could see something in the other man's eyes. "It's Shawn."

0 o 0 o 0

Lassiter watched the blood bubble and froth beneath his fingers.

"Spencer," he said amid a choke. Shawn said nothing. The detective looked up to the young man at his side. "Spencer!" Shawn jumped, and his gaze shifted from Jeremy, who lay sprawled on the stairs, a gunshot wound spewing blood from the side of his neck.

Lassiter pressed harder on the wound, gritting his teeth and reminding himself that he couldn't just let this man—this kidnapping, murdering man—die here like this. Jeremy Mavers was not going to get out of this easy.

"Spencer, go call an ambulance."

Shawn didn't move.

"Spencer, I swear to God, if you don't move your ass, I'm going to—"

"I can't, Lassie." The younger man shook his head slowly. The gun was in his hand, his fingers grasping it loosely. It slipped from his sweat-slick palm and landed with a clatter on the wooden stairs, falling through an opening between the steps and to the basement floor.

"Shawn, don't do this! Come on! Go get me a phone. I'll call the station. Just . . . _do something_!" Lassiter pleaded.

Suddenly, Jeremy gurgled, shuddering before going limp. Dull eyes stared at Shawn, forever accusing—eyes that would haunt Shawn's dreams for a very long time.

The Irishman cursed, removing one hand to check Jeremy's pulse. There wasn't one, and he sat back on a step, draping his arms over his knees and lowering his head in defeat and exhaustion. Blood dripped from his fingertips, pattering against the stairs and soaking into the wood; stains that would never leave.

"Lassie?" Shawn's small voice echoed in the quiet. "Can we leave now? I don't like how it smells in here."

Copper and death—at least that's what Lassiter smelled. He was sure that was what Shawn was talking about. The detective didn't particularly like the smell either, but he couldn't seem to find the energy to get up and move. After everything that had happened over the past few days, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to move again.

He'd take his retirement now, please.

"Lassie?" Shawn asked again, nudging his shin with a dirty sneaker.

"Yea," Lassiter said, his voice husky and revealing every bit of the ache and weariness that ran through his body, "we can go." He grabbed Shawn's forearm, using it as leverage to stand, and didn't let go as he turned and started up the stairs.

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn leaned gratefully against the alleyway wall, staring dumbfounded at the man breathing heavily across from him. "Lassie," he whispered, swallowing hard and beginning to slide down the wall as his legs failed him. "Lassie, I can't—I can't . . . ." He could feel his throat closing, that familiar clenching of muscles around his adam's apple. In the darkness of the damp, steamy alley, he wheezed and felt two broad arms wrap around him firmly.

"Breathe, Spencer," Lassiter said with an uncharacteristic softness. "Just breathe."

The Mavers brothers had been smart about their choice of location. Their home was nearly a mile from the town. Nothing was open this late at night, and Shawn had been making strange noises in the back of his throat. Lassiter looked around over the top of the younger man's head, finding a pay phone just outside the mouth of the alley and sighing with relief.

He pressed his lips to Shawn's dirty hair, saying, "I'm going to get us some help. Stay put. Keep breathing." He stood, listening to Shawn's wheezes for a moment before staggering towards the lighted area outside the alley. Before he reached the edge of the alley, however, he heard sirens. By the time he stepped foot into the circle of light from a street lamp, several squad cars boldly proclaiming _SBPD _were swerving to a stop right in front of him.

The swirls of red and blue blinded him, and he raised a hand to his eyes to block the offending lights. Dark figures hurriedly stepped from the cars, shielding themselves behind their doors and raising their guns in his direction.

"Freeze!" someone shouted, and the detective automatically raised his hands, swallowing hard and squinting to better focus on the officers that surrounded them.

"Hold your fire!" another voice called, and Lassiter recognized it immediately. McNabb rushed forward as the detective wearily let his arms fall back to his sides. "Sir! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Lassiter nodded with a wince. McNabb made to take his arm for support, but the Irishman shook his head and motioned into the darkness of the alley. "Spencer . . . He's down here." The officer motioned behind him towards the alley, and two people rushed by them, finding Shawn and carefully lifting him from the damp ground.

"Sir?" McNabb placed a hand on Lassiter's shoulder. "We have orders to take you directly to the hospital."

"No," the detective argued with a shake of his head. "Just take us to the station."

"Sir, the chief said—"

"McNabb, _take us to the station_."

The officer sighed defeatedly, shrugging and saying, "Good to have you back, Detective Lassiter."

0 o 0 o 0

"What about Shawn?" Chet demanded.

"Henry doesn't . . ." Gus trailed off, an apologetic look taking his face.

With a dawning look of understanding, Chet nodded and winced with hurt. "Henry doesn't want him to see me."

"I'm sorry," the pharmaceutical salesman said. He really did like the other man, and he would be sorry to see him go.

"So am I," Chet replied. He looked into Gus's eyes determinedly. "I'm not leaving without seeing him." Gus started to protest, started to warn him about Henry, but Chet shook his head. "I can't leave without seeing him, Gus. It's just . . . something I have to do."

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn and Lassiter entered the Santa Barbara police station to a symphony of applause and whistles and shouts of welcome. Both men were too exhausted to appreciate it fully, but they endured it with forced smiles and nods of thanks. Gus was the first to reach Shawn, crushing him with a hug that rivaled any hugs they had shared in the past. Henry looked his son over carefully before wrapping surprisingly gentle arms around the young man and murmuring apologies mixed with threats into Shawn's ear. Shawn had never been so happy to hear either.

Lassiter was met by Juliet and Vick, the younger of the two women unable to stop herself from hugging the head detective. The Irishman hesitated only a moment before giving in and hugging his junior detective back, grateful for the contact for once—though he made a mental note to talk to her about it later.

Shawn sighed, thankful that the welcoming party was over. But before he could make himself too comfortable with the thought, a striking pair of green eyes met his own, and he froze amid the chatter and relieved laughter surrounding him. Everything fell away, and his breath caught at the back of his throat.

"Chet?" he whispered with disbelief as the other man stepped forward.

Before Shawn could say anything further, Chet pulled himflush up against himself, locking their lips in a kiss that made the entire room fall silent. When they finally pulled apart, Chet chuckled at the dazed look Shawn gave him.

"Hi," the dark-haired man said softly.

"Yea," Shawn murmured, "I'll say." Swallowing hard, he gently stepped out of the man's grasp. "What're you doing here?"

"I heard about . . . your suicide attempt." The man fidgeted uncomfortably. "I was wondering if we could talk."

Shawn eyed the crowd around them, ignoring the disapproving look from his father and tilting his head toward an empty office. They walked past several prying eyes into the safety and secludedness of the room, and Shawn closed the door, turning and leaning back against it. He took a breath to speak, but Chet was there again, his mouth on Shawn's.

Shawn didn't have time to think—didn't really want to. He leaned into the kiss, moaning as Chet's fingertips made their way under the hem of his dirty T-Shirt. He felt disgusting after spending however many days in that basement, but Chet didn't seem to mind, so he didn't say anything. His own fingers strung through the other man's hair. The kiss deepened, and Chet's hips jerked. The two pulled apart with simultaneous gasps, their panting filling the room for a long moment before Shawn spoke.

"Chet," he whispered, "we can't do this." The dark-haired man's eyes closed, and he leaned his forehead against Shawn's with a groan. Shawn's hands moved to his former lover's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "I missed you."

Chet smiled sadly, cupping the young man's chin. "I missed you, too."

Shawn sagged tiredly in the other's hold. "So you heard?"

"Yea, I heard." Chet looked down into the young man's eyes. "And I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner."

Shawn smirked. "It's not your job to look after me."

"Not anymore."

"It never was," Shawn argued, frowning. "I didn't ask for your help."

Chet leaned in close, his bright, intimidating eyes boring into the other man's. "You sure as hell needed it," he pointed out seriously.

Shawn tried to shove the man away, but Chet stayed grounded to the spot, refusing to let the conversation go, refusing to let Shawn run away again.

"Chet, don't . . . ." Shawn pleaded.

"Don't what? Don't stop you from leaving? Don't try to keep you in the one place you seem to be the happiest?" The taller man scowled. "What the hell is your problem, Shawn? Why are you always running from things? From places? From . . . me?"

Shawn's eyes closed, his mind desperately wishing this conversation away. "I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. "You have to let me go."

"No," Chet said, his tone starting to waver. "Why, Shawn? Why couldn't you take me with you? I would have gone anywhere, I would have done anything to be with you."

"I'm not worth it."

"That's what they told me," the dark-haired officer huffed with disbelief. "That's what everyone at the academy said when we started dating. They said you weren't worth the wasted emotions, that you'd fuck it up somehow." Chet shook his head desperately. "But I didn't believe them. I _never _believed them. And I still don't, Shawn. I don't believe that you could ever be worthless."

"Don't do this," Shawn whispered.

Chet didn't listen. "You said once that I couldn't love someone who doesn't exist." He slid a thumb along the line of Shawn's cheekbone. "You said I couldn't love someone . . . who will never love me back."

Shaking his head, Shawn tried to clear the buzzing, tried to rid his mind of the flooding memories that were causing his chest to tighten. "I don't, Chet. I don't love you. I _can't _love you."

"Why?" the taller man demanded. "Why?"

"You have a family, a wife and children. You're happy, aren't you?" Shawn had known about Chet's family for a long time. And it pained him to know that the other man could move on so easily. But he deserved every bit of it.

Chet let loose a hysterical bark of laughter, his eyes welling with tears. "Fuck, Shawn," he wheezed as tears rolled down his cheeks. "Do you know? Do you know what you're capable of?"

Shawn's eyebrows knit in confusion. Chet leaned forward and buried his nose in the crook of the young man's neck, inhaling deeply before releasing a shuddering gust of air.

"If you asked me right now . . . If you said, 'Let's go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Someplace not here,' I'd leave with you in a heartbeat."

Shawn closed his eyes as if in pain, swallowing hard and breathing unevenly. "You would?" Chet pulled back, watching the young man closely. "You'd leave your family? Your wife and your kids?"

"Yes," Chet whispered without hesitation, and Shawn could see that the answer hurt him more than anything. Chet ducked his head and sobbed. "Satan fuck me, yes I would. I would follow you anywhere, Shawn Spencer."

Shawn whimpered, his trembling hands fisting the fabric of the other man's shirt. "Why? _Why_?" Tears of his own fell in quick succession down his face.

Chet's fingers snaked through Shawn's hair, forcing the man to look him in the eyes. "Tell me," he begged, his voice wavering. "Tell me to go with you. Tell me, and we'll leave." Shawn's hands moved up Chet's arms, his fingers curling tightly around the man's slim wrists. He shook his head, pinning a sob to the back of his throat. Chet jerked Shawn's head in his hold. "Tell me!" he demanded. "Tell me to go with you, Shawn! _Make me go with you_."

"I can't!" Shawn cried. His legs nearly collapsed from beneath him as he shut his eyes tightly. "I can't! Why are you doing this to me? Why—" His sob was swallowed by a pair of lips on his own. The sensation was familiar and warm. It was safe, and he lost himself to it, let it take him over completely. He wrapped his arms around Chet's middle, pulling the other man flush against him as he deepened the kiss.

He whimpered as the taller man wrapped hard arms around his back, squeezing their bodies together—bodies that used to fit together so perfectly and now seemed clumsy and awkward against one another. Chet swiveled them around, like some sort of stumbling waltz, walking them to the desk and pushing Shawn onto the cluttered surface. Several office supplies tumbled to the floor in a symphony of shatters and clatters as Chet settled himself between Shawn's legs, grinding against him.

Shawn broke the kiss with a gasp, moaning as he tilted his head back and surrendered to the pleasure he hadn't felt in so long. Chet's mouth latched onto the other man's throat, sucking the familiar taste onto his tongue. The desk creaked as the dark-haired man ground into Shawn again, more harshly and more desperate than before. Shawn's lips parted with a groan, and Chet took that moment to cover the other man's mouth with his own, his tongue delving deep to explore old territory. Each thrust of his tongue mirrored those of his hips, eliciting wondrous and long-forgotten sounds from Shawn.

And then, suddenly, from amidst the pleasure, Shawn's conscience kicked in, and his eyes snapped open. "Chet!" he gasped, grunting as the other man continued to move against him.

"Shawn," Chet said breathlessly, his eyes pleading, "don't. Don't you dare."

Shawn moaned in frustration and pleasure, his palms flattening against the other's chest and his fingers splaying as he used all the energy he could summon to put a fraction of an inch between them. "Chet . . . Stop."

Chet huffed with aggravation as he forced himself to stop moving, burying his flushed face into Shawn's shoulder. "W-Why?"

Shawn could have kicked himself. The only decent sex he'd had in months, and he had to go and ruin it. He was almost tempted to let his former boyfriend go at it again but sighed in resignation, digging the heels of his palms into his eyelids. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "Your family. My family. My . . . Lassie."

Chet wheezed with laughter, picking himself up enough to stare down at the other man. "The detective."

Shawn shrugged as best he could in such an uncomfortable position. "I have a thing for cops."

Chet grit his teeth as he pushed himself up and off of Shawn. "Fuck," he swore, turning and facing the closed blinds. "Fuck, what the hell am I doing? Lindsey . . . Shit, Lindsey's going to kill me."

"It was a moment of weakness," Shawn mumbled, still sprawled on the desk. "It doesn't count, besides, because we didn't . . . you know . . . finish."

The taller man chuckled, shaking his head at the shielded windows. "No, I think it counts even if we didn't . . . _finish_."

Shawn, finally, sat up, studying the man's back blearily. "Seriously, it's no big deal. I've brought married people home before." Chet turned around to face him with raised eyebrows. "This is between you, me, and the desk."

"And about half the station, if the walls are as thin as I think they are," Chet murmured, glancing over his shoulder at the windows again as his lips pressed into thin, grim lines. "If this gets back to my precinct . . . ."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "How is this going to get back to your bo-dunk precinct out in the middle of nowhere?"

"It's not a bo-dunk precinct in the middle of nowhere, Shawn," Chet said with forced harshness. "As hard as it is to believe, Nebraska actually has cities with people who have never been within a hundred yards of a cow."

"Still," Shawn argued, "it's, like, seven states away!"

Chet gave the shorter man a pointed look. "It's _three _states away, and we also have fax machines." Chet closed his eyes and blew a sharp stream of air past his lips. "You know, this isn't even the point. I don't care if people find out or don't find out." He opened his eyes, his face emitting defeat. "Shawn . . . ."

Shawn scoffed with mock annoyance. "Well, if you're going to go all guilt-trip, you might as well finish what you started." He spread his legs invitingly, his eyebrows raising and his lips quirking with the suggestion.

Chet half-laughed-half-sobbed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't tempt me," he choked, turning away again with a pained look on his face.

Shawn's grin disappeared as he slid off the desk, wincing when his muscles ached in places that they hadn't ached in a long, long time. "Hey," he said softly, approaching the man cautiously and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Chet turned abruptly, and Shawn found himself in almost the same position they had started in. "Che t . . . We can't."

"I know," Chet whispered, trapping the shorter man against the wall with his arms stretched out on either side and palms flat against the bumpy, plastered surface.

"You've done nothing wrong," Shawn told him, matter-of-fact.

Nodding reluctantly, Chet leaned forward so that their cheekbones brushed one another's softly. "Okay."

Shawn drew in a breath at the contact and closed his eyes. "Y-You have to go home to your family."

"Okay," Chet sighed into Shawn's ear, making the young man shiver. The taller man leaned his head back slightly so that the two were eye to eye, their lips only a breath apart.

"Goodbye, Chet," Shawn whispered.

"Goodbye, Shawn." Chet ducked his head, capturing the shorter man's lips in one last soft kiss.

Unfortunately, this was the moment that a certain detective decided to barge in. The door opened abruptly, Lassiter's sharp but tired voice sounding beside them. "Spencer, you'd better wrap it up in here. We have to—"

Shawn and Chet pulled apart just as the detective's eyes landed on their forms in the dark room. He stared at them for a moment, eyes shifting between the two of them before he quickly turned and slammed the door shut again.

"Lassie!" Shawn called, breaking free of the taller man still imprisoning him against the wall and nearly ripping the doorknob from the door as he whipped it open and hurried out onto the main floor of the station. "Lassiter! Wait, I can—"

The detective was already pushing his way out the front door.

_Damn, that man moves quick_, Shawn griped internally. "Carlton! Please, don't—" A hand on his shoulder stopped him from following the other man, and Shawn turned to find his father's solemn face studying him. "Dad, I have to—"

"Shawn, you're not going anywhere," Henry stated firmly, and the pit of the young Spencer's stomach fell out, leaving a giant abyss waiting to suck his soul into its massiveness. "We need to talk about your meds."

Shawn winced as the buzzing in his head, suddenly, became all-too clear again. He spared one more look at the front door, one more hopeful glance in the direction of a possible savior, but Lassiter was long gone. And Shawn had never felt so abandoned.

AN: Poor, poor Shawn. I just can't seem to make him happy. Well, maybe he'll find some happiness in the last chapter...No guarantees, though. ;) Later, Gators! Catch you in the conclusion to this epic.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

AN: Oh my . . . It's been some time, hasn't it? I am so very sorry that it has taken so long to get this chapter posted. I have only just started student teaching this semester, and so far it seems to be . . . Well, I'd rather not invest too much time and effort worrying over the first week (though I will say that I wish I could do it over again). Anyway, I really hope you all enjoy the very, very last installment of this fic. Of course, I have plans for a part two, which should be stated at the end of this chapter. It has been so great hearing from everyone about this story! Thank you so much for your support!

Enjoy!

_Chapter Sixteen_:

Chet was gone before the next morning, having found the earliest flight back to Nebraska and with not another word to Shawn or the Santa Barbara Police Department. Though Shawn was disappointed, he decided it was probably the smartest thing to do, considering what had happened between them . . . or what had _almost _happened between them.

Henry was not pleased with the discovery of Shawn's disregard of his medication. After much begging and pleading, Shawn convinced his father that he did not need to be sent off to an institution of any kind and that he would take his medication everyday with the direct supervision of the elder Spencer or Gus. No more pocketing pills, and definitely no more drugging friends and family.

Jessica Mavers was found exactly where Andrew had told Shawn she would be—in an unmarked drawer at the Santa Monica morgue, only ten minutes away from the Mavers' residence. Her funeral was attended by several people, Shawn and Lassiter _ex_cluded. They were done with everything having to do with the Mavers. The former Mrs. Mavers had wanted to meet them, the men that her ex-husband had abducted and chained in his basement. Both men declined.

The Santa Barbara Police Department was not going to press charges against Shawn for being a fake psychic, and, surprisingly, only a few former clients of the disestablished detective agency were severely miffed about Shawn's deceit. Most decided that the fact that the young man had been able to help them at all when the police couldn't was enough for them. Some even still believed he was a psychic, that the visions were just becoming too much for him and he claimed himself a fake to opt out of the business.

Vick extended Shawn's probationary period, to his utter dismay, with threats of a life-long career behind a desk if he didn't get his act together. Shawn reluctantly complied with everything demanded of him, hardly leaving his father's house at all during the days that followed.

One week after everything had finally started to settle down, Henry found him dozing on the couch in front of an old John Wayne movie. Shawn hated westerns—he'd always been more of a science fiction type; killer robots, space aliens, flying saucers. The older man frowned, gently shaking Shawn's shoulder and offering him two pills and a glass of water. Shawn took them without protest, swallowing the pills and handing the half-empty glass back to his father drowsily.

The doorbell rang, causing Shawn to jump and clutch the small couch pillow in his lap to his chest. Henry offered his son a reassuring pat on the shoulder, setting the glass down on a coaster and heading toward the door. He frowned at the woman he could see just beyond the screen door. Her hair was long and strawberry-blonde, trickling down her back between her shoulder blades from the tight ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a deep mahogany, almost black, and her skin was lightly tanned beneath a white tank top and a peach layer-skirt that ended with a careful curl at her knees.

Henry opened the screen door and scowled at the young woman. His patience, however minuscule it had been before, had vanished over the last week with the appearance of reporters on their lawn and the barrage of phone calls from Madeleine and Vick and Gus. He was done being socially acceptable. The only thing that mattered in his life was Shawn, and by God he was going to protect his son from anything and anyone.

"Yeah?"

The young woman looked unperturbed by his abruptness, her lips drawn into thin lines. "I'm looking for Shawn Spencer." Her voice was tight, as if the muscles in her throat were straining against the words, trying to keep them down.

"He's not talking to any reporters." Henry started to close the door, but the woman stepped forward, one small white shoe blocking the door from swinging back in.

"My name is Lindsey Donovan. I'm Chet Donovan's wife."

The elder Spencer felt his stomach twist. Looking over his shoulder, he studied Shawn's slouching form on the couch, seemingly oblivious. With an uncomfortable anxiety on his face he turned back to the woman. "I don't think so. He's not up for visitors today."

"Please," Lindsey said, though her tone was anything but pleading. "I've come a long way. I just want to see him for a moment."

Henry gave the woman a skeptical once-over before shaking his head. "I really don't—"

"Dad?" Shawn's small voice echoed from the couch, and the older man's lips tightened as he looked over his shoulder once again. The young man was turned in their direction, red-rimmed eyes watching them carefully. "I think you should let her in."

"Shawn, you need to rest," Henry protested with as much conviction as he could conjure. He turned back to the woman in the doorway. "He needs to rest. Maybe tomorrow—"

"Mr. Spencer," Lindsey said tightly, the muscles in her throat rippling as she held back the shout she so desperately wanted to let loose, "I would like to speak to the man who is screwing my husband." She took a quick, steadying breath, watching the man stiffen defensively. "If you wouldn't mind."

Henry stood still for a moment longer before reluctantly stepping aside. He glared at her as she passed him without another glance and walked determinedly into the living room, setting an intimidating stance directly in front of Shawn. The young man looked up at her blearily, the effect of her anger and courage completely lost on him. He looked absolutely pathetic, and it didn't make her mission any easier, but it made her more confident about who her husband would choose at that very moment.

Intent on striking the man sitting before her, she raised a hand, losing her nerve when Shawn didn't even have the decency to flinch. She settled for stomping her foot and balling her hands into fists at her sides. "Did you fuck him?" she demanded abruptly.

Shawn took a moment to absorb the question, but once it penetrated the fog surrounding his comprehension, he shook his head lopsidedly.

Her nostrils flared. "Did he fuck you?" she asked next. Shawn gave the same reply, and the fists at her sides began to shake. "But something . . . _happened _between you two?" The young man didn't respond, and Lindsey burst into tears, sinking to her knees. How could her husband do this to her?

Lindsey Donovan had known full-well about Shawn Spencer from the moment she had met Chet. He had confessed to her on their first blind date that he had been in a relationship that had ended badly, and that he still hurt. She had been patient. For three years, she allowed him to court her, to vent every frustration about his "lost love" to her, to sleep with her, and, finally, to marry her. After so long, she'd thought he had gotten over Shawn. She had given him two beautiful little girls, she had played the good housewife for so many years.

And after all that—after everything she'd sacrificed to be with him—he was going to leave her for . . . _this_?

She looked at Shawn again, really looked. He was a sad-looking nothing—he was _less _than nothing. How could Chet see something in this . . . in this . . . _nothing_?

"How could he choose you over me?" she whispered, mascara running down her face in rivers with the tears streaming from her eyes.

"Well, right now," Shawn said without an ounce of lucidity, "I think just about anyone would choose me over you." He shifted on the couch until he was comfortable again. "And you caught me on a bad day. I'm much prettier with my make-up on." He smiled cheekily at her, his head wavering as if it rested unstably on his neck—Shawn Spencer, the human bobble head. He laughed at his own internal joke, and she took this as a jibe at her appearance.

Lindsey sniffled. _Now _who was pathetic?

Yanking the small bag from her shoulder, she roughly ripped it open and shuffled around inside of it. Before she could find what she was looking for, a tissue box appeared in front of her face. She looked up into strangely sympathetic eyes.

Shawn gestured down the hallway with his head. "There's a bathroom down that way, if you'd like a mirror."

She shook her head vigorously, snatching a few tissues and blotting her eyes and cheeks. The tissues came away wet and blotched with dark gray streaks. "Why?" she asked huskily, looking back up into his eyes. Shawn sat crouched in front of her, tissue box still clutched firmly in one hand, the other hand grasping the coffee table to steady himself. "Why does he love you more than me?"

Shawn smiled gently, and the gesture drastically changed his features. "He doesn't," he stated matter-of-factly. "He loves you, Lindsey. He loves your children."

"Then why did he come running back to you?"

The young man shrugged, pushing himself back and settling onto the couch again. "I have that effect on people." He chuckled low in his throat. "Can't seem to get rid of them once they're hooked." Lindsey stared at him, flabbergasted, and the smile on his lips slowly faded. "You really want to know why he thinks he loves me? Why he thinks he needs me?"

The young woman didn't move. She wasn't sure if she wanted the answer. She'd come for it, sure—but now that she was here, staring the one person with all the answers in the face . . . she wasn't sure she could listen. What would she do with the knowledge? What could she possibly use it for? To keep Chet happy? To keep Chet with _her_? She already knew she couldn't do that, no matter the distance she put between her family and Shawn Spencer.

Shawn leaned forward, his arms resting languidly on his thighs and his face serene. "Because he thinks that _I _loved _him_—that I _needed _him."

Swallowing hard, Lindsey drew in a shaky breath. "Did you?"

"I wouldn't be alive without him."

"But did you _love _him?"

Silence rang through the room for a long while until Shawn finally forced his lips to spread thin against his face. "No," he lied easily.

0 o 0 o 0

_/The Truth About Shawn Spencer (Final Chapter):_

_The man known simply as Shawn Spencer falls in love with only two people in his lifetime._

_When Shawn Spencer is nineteen-years-old, it is with a man named Chet Donovan._

_And when Shawn Spencer is thirty-years-old, it is head-over-heels for a man named Carlton Lassiter./_

0 o 0 o 0

Several Months Later:

"This is gonna be a tough one, boss."

Vick squinted in the high-noon sunlight streaming onto the crime scene. Another murder within the last two weeks. The victims seemed to be coming at SBPD faster and faster.

"Thank you, McNabb," the police chief said tightly, standing from her squatting position. "I think we're all aware of that."

McNabb had the decency to flush, though in the California summer heat, no one could really be certain about the difference between embarrassment and heat stroke.

"Yes, ma'am," the officer said, clearing his throat. "I only meant that . . . maybe we could use some help."

Vick placed her hands on her hips and clenched her teeth painfully. "I don't think that's such a good idea," she stated with little conviction. "Detective Lassiter will be here soon. We'll get his opinion."

"Chief, with all due respect," McNabb said quietly, "I think we need more than the head detective on this."

Vick sighed, glancing over the crime scene with an absent gaze as her thoughts wandered. She noticed Juliet half-turned toward them, her pen poised above her notebook but unmoving as she listened closely to the conversation.

With an aggravated noise from the back of her throat, Vick muttered, "Make the call."

0 o 0 o 0

Shawn arrived on the scene without a fuss, without an overly-dramatic entrance, without so much as a smart remark about the surrounding onlookers in drag and mesh and Lycra pants. In fact, it took almost ten minutes for anyone to notice him at all, and by then, he'd already crossed the police line and taken a look around. He'd read enough police reports to know it was a big case. Transvestites were being dropped like flies; seven in the last two weeks.

"How does it feel, Shawn?"

The young man turned to find Juliet O'Hara smiling timidly at him. "How does what feel?" he asked absently, and Juliet's smile faded.

She had been watching him over the past few months—watching as he popped pills with a smile, laughed at all the funny jokes while making none of his own. His life consisted of desk work in the archives, living at home with his father, and seeing the precinct shrink twice a week. Juliet did not envy Shawn. But she was going to try to bring a piece of her friend back, no matter the cost.

"How does it feel," she repeated, "being back out here? Out in the field?"

Shawn wasn't sure how to answer the question—mainly because he didn't know how he felt. Things had been numb for a long time. He could feel his old self bubbling just below the surface of the drug-induced stupor he was forcing himself into. The medication helped, he couldn't deny that. The anxiety, the overwhelming feeling of being trapped, was gone. And in its place stood . . . nothing. It was the possum situation all over again, except this time the possum had been beaten to death, and now there was this dead possum that had to be dragged around, slowing his thoughts, making situations awkward.

"It feels . . . different," Shawn decided quietly, "than before, I mean."

Different because he wasn't the center of attention. Different because he didn't want to _be _the center of attention. At least he didn't have to wear a uniform. He rubbed sweaty palms on the sides of his jeans. Their attention shifted as someone broke through the crowd and stepped forward into the crime scene.

0 o 0 o 0

Carlton Lassiter arrived on the scene to prying eyes and whispers that he couldn't quite catch. Something was happening. Maybe the crime scene was more gruesome than usual. But the eyes and whispers were directed towards him. Something _else _was happening. And when the crowd of anxious officers parted, he saw what it was.

Shawn stood near the newest victim, O'Hara at his side. They were both staring in his direction. He didn't know what to do.

Clearing his throat, he turned towards Vick, asking bluntly, "What do we have, Chief?"

Vick clenched her jaw in apparent disapproval, saying, "Same M.O. We brought Spencer in for a consult."

Lassiter nodded. "I see that." His gaze flickered over to the younger man, who was smiling at something that O'Hara was saying. Shawn laughed, and the Irishman allowed himself to revel in the sound for a moment. Why couldn't he just say the things that he _should _be saying?

_Good to have you back, Spencer._

I know it's been hard.

I'm proud of you. You know that, right?

Spencer, I'm sorry.

Spencer, I made a mistake.

Spencer .

_. . Shawn . . . _Shawn _. . . ._

"Shawn."

The small group went quiet, and Shawn looked into Lassiter's eyes with a sense of hope. The detective cleared his throat again. "What can you tell us?"

Shawn's shoulders deflated, but he quickly composed himself, looking back at the body and around the crime scene one last time before facing the man he'd dreamed about every night since their kidnapping. "The tattoo on your victim's arm—"

"What tattoo?" Juliet interrupted, and Shawn's eyebrows knit together. He looked toward Lassiter and Vick, who stared back at him with similar pensive frowns. Following the young man's line of sight, Juliet studied her superiors carefully. "What tattoo?"

The police chief and head detective shared a brief glance before Lassiter spoke. "The one on his arm, on the inside of his bicep."

The junior detective looked stunned. "Why didn't you say anything about this?"

"We didn't want word getting out," Vick explained, her confidence boosting as her usual authority took control. "It was a detail we wanted left out of the papers to weed out people who just want the attention." Juliet opened her mouth to protest, but Vick held up a hand, stalling her comment. "And we didn't want anyone in the precinct getting ideas about tipping off the reporters." She glanced around at her men and women. They were reliable in the field, each and every one of them, but some of them couldn't keep a secret to save their lives.

"DQ," Shawn stated, bringing the attention back on himself. "That's the tattoo."

"All of our victims have had the same tattoo," Lassiter began, but Shawn quickly shook his head.

"No," he said matter-of-factly. "Your last two victims were copy-cat cases."

A stunned silence hung in the air.

"How could you possibly know that?" the head detective demanded, more out of curiosity than anger.

Shawn shrugged. "I read." The simple statement elicited a groan from Vick and a growl of annoyance from Lassiter. Before either could express their frustrations, the young man continued. "The coroner's report said that four out of your last six victims had tattoos from the same parlor—all the ink matched." He leaned down beside the newest victim, moving the sheet away from the arm and twisting it to reveal the tattoo. Rubbing a thumb over the stained skin, he continued, "This looks like a legitimate tattoo. I think he matches your first four victims."

"What about the last two?" Juliet asked, leaning over Shawn and narrowing her eyes at the small letters. They weren't very big at all, barely noticeable.

"The coroner found lead-based paint on the victims' skin, not the same ink that these victims have," Shawn explained absently, as if considering his words before he said them. "The skin absorbed the paint, making it look like a tattoo, but eventually it would fade completely." _If they were still alive_, he thought to himself. "Which means that your seventh victim, here—" He lowered the arm back beneath the sheet and stood. "—is actually your fifth."

"Which means," Vick started tiredly, looking none-too-pleased, "that not only are we looking for a serial killer, we're looking for our serial killer's copy-cat."

Juliet frowned. "What does 'DQ' stand for?"

"Dancing Queen," Shawn said before anyone else could comment. "It's a strip club downtown. All the dancers there have this tattoo."

"How could you . . . ." Vick started but stopped herself from repeating Lassiter's earlier statement.

"How do you think Gus put himself through college?" Shawn smirked but quickly composed himself as several pairs of unamused eyes met his. "I looked it up. I think they call that _police work_."

"Exactly," Vick muttered under her breath, turning to Lassiter. "Go down to that club, check it out. I want a report on my desk by the end of the day, and I want _someone_in custody by the end of this week."

"I'd start with the bartender," Shawn offered helpfully.

"You think it was him?" the Irishman asked.

The younger man shook his head. "No, but I think it was an inside job and that whoever _did _do it will start getting nervous if you take someone into custody."

"So all we have to do is wait and see who decides to try and skip town after we take the bartender in," Juliet said, a satisfied smile lining her mouth. "Good job, Shawn!"

Without anymore instruction, the group of detectives and officers and a determined police chief split off into organized teams, leaving Shawn standing alone in the middle of a crime scene and feeling mildly under-appreciated.

"You're welcome," he murmured under his breath, starting towards the street to hail a cab.

0 o 0 o 0

"McNabb," Lassiter called from his desk, standing over a surprisingly paperwork-free surface. The officer snapped in his direction immediately, attentive to whatever the head detective needed of him. "You seen Spencer?"

McNabb gave the precinct a brief once-over. "No, Sir, not since the crime scene."

Lassiter sighed with both frustration and the beginnings of concern.

0 o 0 o 0

The officers down in the archives hadn't seen him. Henry hadn't seen him either. And Gus wasn't answering his cellphone.

Shawn was missing. And Lassiter's concern was morphing into full-blown fright. Ever since their kidnapping, the head detective had kept a secretive eye on the younger man. Not that he thought it would happen again—what were the chances, really?—but it never hurt to be careful. Shawn's cellphone continuously went straight to voicemail, his silly message still in place from before everything that had happened over the past several months.

_You've reached the Pineapple Express. If you wish to place an order, press one. If you wish to leave a message, press two. If you'd like to date our very own Shawn Spencer, press three . . . repeatedly._

Lassiter stopped leaving messages after the fourth call he'd made.

Currently, he paced the porch of his house, cellphone in hand and a contemplative scowl making ugly lines crease the skin around his mouth. He didn't often wear blue jeans, but slacks just weren't something someone wore when pacing in worry. He still wore his white, button-up work shirt, half tucked, half un-tucked, though he had ditched the jacket and the tie, freeing the top few buttons. His dark hair was mussed from having run his hands through it several times, and his feet were bare—his dress shoes weren't something that he felt he needed for pacing either.

This is how Shawn found the man that made his insides tighten and his breath hitch. The young man's mouth went dry at the sight of him. It wasn't everyday that one saw Lassie out of work-wear. He generally wore it on his days off, too, in case he was called in—and he usually was. This was an entirely different side of the head detective that Shawn found wonderfully human.

"Waiting for someone?" he called as he approached the bottom of the steps.

Lassiter halted abruptly and spun in his direction. "Spencer, where the hell have you—" He started toward the younger man determinedly but stopped mid-stride when he met Shawn's defeated gaze. "...Shawn?"

The younger man ascended the stairs with hesitation. "I think we need to talk."

The head detective breathed a sigh of relief and exasperation, his anger dissipating little-by-little. "Shawn, where have you been?"

"The bar," Shawn stated without thinking

Lassiter could feel his anger rising again. "What—"

Shawn raised a hand, halting any accusations that the other man might make. "I wasn't drinking." He shrugged with a sheepish smile. "I had a Coke with Gus."

"Oh," was all that the Irishman could think to say.

"Yeah. We...talked. About some things."

"Some things?"

"About me...and you."

"You...and me." Lassiter felt like a moron, repeating things back to the younger man like a parrot in desperate need of a cracker.

"Us," Shawn confirmed with a single nod of his head. "We talked about what happened the night you were taken."

The head detective had also heard a great deal about what had happened the night of his kidnapping. Shawn had gone into a rampant state. He'd been frantic to find clues, had gotten angry, and then had a sudden breakthrough—which had been somewhat of a fluke. With the chemical state Shawn's mind had been in that night (meds being flushed from his body and still desperately trying to hang on to any semblance of sanity), it was amazing that the young man could even move, let alone think of something so mind-jarring—at least, that's what the doctor had said after adjusting Shawn's dosage. Obviously, the quack didn't know Shawn Spencer very well.

"I see," Lassiter said, crossing his arms and trying for a stoic look. "What else did you talk about?"

"We..." Shawn stopped for a moment looking away and shifting uncomfortably. "We talked about Chet." He glanced briefly at the Irishman, but his look did not change. "I told him what happened between us at the academy."

"And what _did _happen between you two at the academy?" Lassiter asked, feeling strange with asking Shawn about his "days at the academy." Shawn Spencer was a cop. It would certainly take some getting used to.

Shawn sighed. "That's something we'll have to talk about . . . another time," he said. "Chet and I are over. I left him behind at the academy, and that's that."

"What about at the station six months ago?" Lassiter's anger was flaring again. "What about you and him in that room?"

"It's not what it looked like," Shawn attempted to console.

"Well, it sure as hell looked like _something_!" The head detective hadn't meant to shout, and as he watched Shawn take a step back, a hurt look on the young man's face, he immediately felt regret...but for some reason couldn't bring himself to show it.

"Jesus, Lassie, is that all you saw?"

Lassiter started at the question, alarmed by the accusation behind it. Wasn't _he _supposed to be accusing _Shawn_? Wasn't the younger man on trial here? Taking a step back, he attempted to square his shoulders, but his ground was already lost. And Shawn was staring at him with so much hurt and hope that the Irishman ached to pull him into his arms.

"What _should _I have seen?" he asked instead, hating how uncertain his tone sounded, how his hands trembled at his sides.

Without another word, Shawn stepped forward and encircled the taller man with strong arms and pressed their lips together hungrily. It was the second time the two had shared a kiss, the second time that they had been on a porch when the kiss was instigated, but it was the first time that Shawn had actually kissed Lassiter.

And what a hell of a kiss it was.

The head detective stumbled back against the porch railing, Shawn following without separating their lips. They both grunted as their hips collided, and Lassiter buried deep the urge to grind himself against the younger man. He gasped, and Shawn took the chance to plunge his tongue along the soft palate of Lassiter's mouth. He tasted the warm, bitter aftermath of black coffee with just a hint of cinnamon toothpaste. Shawn longed to know what he tasted like after dinner, after a shower, after long hours of making love, and, yes, even what he tasted like the morning after before brushing his teeth. Shawn wanted to know all the tastes of Carlton Lassiter, especially the bitter-sweet ones.

When need for air finally pulled the two apart, both panted heavily and stared with wide eyes at one another. Neither of them moved, already comfortable with the nearness of each other, as if they had been for years... Hadn't they, though?

"That," Lassiter breathed harshly, swallowing before continuing, "was _not _the kiss you gave Donovan."

Shawn shook his head, the beginnings of a smirk appearing on his lips. "No," he stated matter-of-factly. "_That _kiss belongs to you."

The head detective breathed ragged and deep for a few moments more as things began to replay in his mind, as things began to settle into place. "It was..." he started, gaining more certainty as Shawn waited expectantly. "It was _goodbye_."

The young man winced; the word still hurt. And it probably would for a long time to come. It was the one word he had always tried to avoid—it was the reason he left so suddenly. It was _always _the reason.

"Yes," Shawn whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the taller man's shoulder.

Lassiter's arms came around him instantly, as if by reflex. And suddenly all the anger and hatred that had been welling and festering in his chest for years long before even the era of Shawn Spencer was released. He let out a surprised gasp as air that had ever smelled or tasted so sweet filled the spaces in his lungs that had been clogged for so long. That sweet taste, that beautiful smell, was _Shawn_.

How had he gone so long without this feeling?

Shawn pulled back just enough to study Lassiter's shocked expression, and he smiled curiously. "You all right?"

The Irishman nodded dumbly, and a genuine grin broke through the daze. "You should stay," he said quietly.

"For dinner?" the younger man asked uncertainly.

Lassiter chuckled and kissed him briefly. "For_ever_."

0 o 0 o 0

_/The Truth About Shawn Spencer & Carlton Lassiter – First Chapter:_

_When Carlton Lassiter first meets Shawn Spencer, he knows that the rest of his life will never be the same._

_Shawn makes friends easier and smiles more and tells better jokes. Shawn shoots more accurately and passes tests with higher scores and is an all-around better cop without actually_

_being a cop (or so everyone thinks). Shawn is everything that Lassiter is not._

_So when the younger man tries to kill himself, the head detective knows he should chalk it up in his favor, but he can't. Because now he knows why Shawn is better at everything. He dedicates himself so fully to everything because the pain is too much. Because even when he tries his hardest at something, it's never enough for him. Because Shawn aches for acceptance from so many people that he stretches himself too thinly. Lassiter can see the wear and tear, and he knows that it hurts._

_When the Irishman has finally seen enough, when the pain has started to become too much for_

_either of them, he does the only thing he can think to do that will ease Shawn's suffering: he kisses him. Lassiter can be ignorant, and he sure as hell can be stubborn, but he can also be just as observant as Shawn is sometimes. He's known for a long time that the young man is not psychic, and he's been angry that everyone seems to be drawn in by the mystery of it all._

_But the day that Shawn Spencer is outed as a fake, the day that he tries to take his own life, is the day that Carlton Lassiter would give anything and everything to take it all back. Shawn needs a reason to breathe, and Lassiter will give every ounce of breath in his body to make sure the young man finds one. After all, who does Shawn run to when he needs someone? Not Gus. And certainly not Henry._

_And then there is Chet Donovan. The head detective does not get the whole story until after the Mavers brothers incident from Vick and O'Hara. The officer from Nebraska is still listed as a contact on Shawn's emergency information, and so gets a call when the fake psychic is hospitalized. He has spent years looking for Shawn and, here, all it takes is a phone call from some city in California. Granted, the circumstances are a little less than desirable, but Shawn is worth it, every time._

_Lassiter checks on Donovan, finding information about his wife, who works full-time in a hair salon and part-time at a massage therapy spa, and his twin girls, who will be turning six in a month. Chet is a fine officer, decorated and spoken of highly. The head detective cannot understand how someone with Chet's life can want to leave it all behind. It is the kind of life that Lassiter has dreamed about since he met his now ex-wife._

_But, as Chet has known all along, Shawn is worth it. He is worth the episodes and medications, the prolonged absences and dramatics. Shawn is worth the pain and hurt that he leaves in his wake._

_So how does Lassiter know that Shawn won't run out on him? How does he know that he will not wake up one day to a vacant half of the bed and an empty closet? How does he know that his heart will not shatter for good when the younger man decides he isn't worth the hassle?_

_Because Shawn Spencer can be better than that. Because Carlton Lassiter is the only person that Shawn has yet to run out on. And because Shawn Spencer is head-over-heels in love._

_He loves Chet, of course, but that is different. It isn't enough—it never has been. Shawn has already said his goodbyes to that part of his life. Lassiter will never be a "goodbye" because the older man barely knows how to say "hello."_

_Which is why when Carlton Lassiter first meets Shawn Spencer, he knows his life has changed forever./_

AN: Well, that is that, I suppose. Until the next part, I mean. :) It might take a while to get that one off the ground, but here is a preview for those who are interested:

_Shawn looked desperate. Shawn Spencer had _never _looked desperate in his life, not even when he'd begged Lassiter to let his psychiatrist commit him. Then, he had been resigned. Now . . . The head detective was afraid to look him in the eye._

_"Something's going on here, Lassie. Something big."_

_"Shawn," Lassiter sighed regrettably, "are you sure this isn't the meds talking? Your doctor said-"_

_"That's just it! I think it's the meds! Something's wrong with the meds." Shawn grabbed the other man's sleeve desperately._

_"What makes you think there's something wrong?" the head detective asked-somewhat indulgently._

_"I'm not getting any better, Carlton." The young man's voice was strange. And he rarely called Lassiter by his first name. "My head . . . It's worse. I can barely concentrate, and I won't be able to for much longer." He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, wincing at the buzzing he felt pressing up behind them. "You have to trust me . . . I can't do this by myself. I need your help. Please, Carly. This is real. I'm not . . . I'm not . . ."_

_Carlton took hold of his lover and squeezed him as closely as he could manage. "You're not crazy," he assured the young man. Shawn's fingers clutched Lassiter's shirt with all the strength he could muster, his eyes clenched tightly against tears that threatened to break the barrier of his eyelids. "You're not. We'll get through this."_

_Shawn knew he was lying._


End file.
